The Scent of Straw
by Ruby Wren
Summary: She's not sure of how long the Woman has held her here, but Belle is certain of one thing. She is going to escape. One way or another.
1. Chapter 1

The slot in the door opened. But it didn't come with the _clickclickclick_ of heels on a stone floor, so she knew it wasn't the Woman come to smile and gloat. Only dinner. Still she couldn't stop the sudden, sick lurch in her stomach as the slot snicked back, expecting that face with the slick, dark hair and the gleaming eyes and the triumphant smile. That smile made her want to rage and scream and act as mad as they said she was. Instead, she forced herself to calmly pad over and take the tray, and the slot closed.

Dinner was always the same: sandwich — they didn't trust her with utensils anymore, ever since she'd worked a plastic knife down to the nub, trying to unscrew the grate over her window — box juice, an apple. For the past few…days? …though it had been just been the juice and the apple, since the last time the Woman had visited and declared she looked 'insubordinate.' And the pills. Blue and white ones, in a shallow plastic cup. She tipped them into her hand, rolled them gently on her palm. She should count tonight. It had been. . . time since she'd counted. She might have enough.

She set her tray on her bed and went to dig out her store of pills from where she'd hidden them all around the cell. A few behind the sink, and in her mattress, and under a loose tile in the floor. She'd buried them wherever she could think, in case they did a room search. They did, sometimes, when the Woman came to get a look at her and decided her look was 'obstinate.' She tried to pile the pills in front of her, but they slipped through her fingers, rattling too loudly on the floor. It froze her for a second, certain that someone must've heard as the pills spilled out like a blue and white mosaic. But no one came, so they must not have heard. She let out a slow breath and, quietly, started raking the pills up, knowing as she did that she wouldn't have to count. This had to be enough.

This was it, then. She'd get out of here, one way or another.

She'd prefer it not to be 'another,' if she had the choice. She'd take it, if there was nothing else, but the plan — the hope — was to get out. And there was an out. She knew there was. They'd taken her there once before, back at the start of…a dark time. Very dark, though the odd thing was that she remembered feeling so quiet, and calm, and sane, right up until the point she'd went to the wall and quietly, calmly, and sanely smashed her head against the bricks, again and again, until they'd had to come in and pull her away. There had been quite a lot of blood, so they'd taken her out of the cell, down a hallway and up a set of stairs, to somewhere brighter, and open, where they'd strapped her down on a bed while a doctor stitched up her head. She hadn't seen it for the opportunity it was, she'd been too far gone at that point, screaming and straining against the straps. It was only later that she'd remembered about the doors, with handles on both sides, and the big, proper windows with no grates over them, and a dozen other things that could've meant _escape_.

She had a little bit of time before they came back for the tray. She wasn't sure how much. Some — but time was slippery here, and it was always more, or not as much, as she thought it would be. She wasn't even sure how long she'd been here, in the dark, in this room, with its 127 concrete blocks and the toilet in the corner and the door with the slot in it so the Woman could peer in at her and smile. She tried to remember sometimes, but it didn't seem to have a beginning. It needed to have an end.

Her heart clutched in her chest. _One way or another._

How many would she have to take? Enough to make her sick, sick enough that they'd have to take her out of here. But how many were enough? How many were too many? The sick, twisty feeling wouldn't leave her chest, and her hand shook as she tried to get the straw into the box juice. It didn't work, and she had to simply tear at the top with her teeth. _I don't want to die._

Then stay. Pitch the pills down the toilet, forget about this, and _stay_. In this cell. Forever. Let the Woman peek in through the slot and smile because she's won. Let her win. And stay here, alive and a coward.

She didn't want to die, but this wasn't living. And being afraid wasn't a reason to stop. Live or die, she could at least be brave. She could try.

She closed her eyes and swallowed the pills down, one by one.


	2. Chapter 2

_**you can't**_

_**you can't go with this beast**_

**It would be all right. She wanted to promise that it would be all right, but she didn't know if it would be, so she couldn't promise. Because she always kept her word. Always. **

**Until he broke it for her.**

"How long?"

"Couldn't be more than forty-five minutes. She was fine when we gave her the dinner tray. That was about 6:30."

**He laughed. All the time. As if all the world was a joke, and he was the only one who knew the punch line. It was odd to hear that delighted giggle out of the monster mothers used to frighten children at bedtime. Odd to hear a laugh at all, when no one laughed around the palace anymore. Not with the ogres raiding the villages and haunting the roads, not with homes burning and men and women being dragged off and screams in the woods.**

"Fifty grams activated charcoal. Here — no, stop, I'll do it." She dimly felt her head tilted back, something hard and plastic eased down her throat.

**A beast. Everyone knew he was a beast, but then she'd scalded her hand making tea for him the second week there, and when she went back to the kitchen to clean up she found a pot of ointment where she couldn't remember one being before.**

**It could have been nothing. She could have just overlooked it before. Except it wasn't the only time, not by half, though when she tried to thank him he claimed not to know what she was talking about, and then laughed that she was a bubble-headed princess who wouldn't be able to find her own nose if it wasn't on her face.**

"She's stabilizing." A relieved sigh. "All right, monitor her for another twenty, and then if all's clear move her to ICU."

_**you had a life before all this **_

_**family **_

_**friends**_

The next sigh was not so relieved. "I'll go call Regina."

_**a life before**_

_**Belle**_

* * *

Consciousness was…fuzzy. And it ached. Every inch, every fiber, ached. _**Where… **_Her legs, her chest — her throat ached, and her head was throbbing. _**Where was she…**_

Wake. She was awake.

She was _alive_.

God — oh, _god_, her head was pitching…

_Get up_. She had to **get up and get the fire going to boil water for tea. He liked tea first thing in the morning.**

Voices. Strange and echoing. " — is she doing up here, doctor?"

Terror was sharp and icy. _Her_ voice. The Woman's. There was the taste of copper in the back of her mouth; she wanted to bolt upright and run, but her body wasn't cooperating. Her legs ached so much…

Another voice. It was a little clearer now. "We called you as soon as we stabilized her."

"You should have checked with me _first_. This woman is very dangerous — "

"No choice. It seems that among the things you neglected — not the least of which was informing the Chief of damn Staff that you are housing committed, long-term psychiatric patients in the hospital, Madame Mayor — are proper facilities to treat said patients, whom you have apparently been keeping in the goddamn _basement_."

_Down there. _Out, then. And alive.

" — happy to know she'll live."

"She had better," The Woman snapped. Close enough that she could hear the staccato click of her heels back and forth. Fear clogged her already clouded mind, threatening to pull her back down. "She's no use to me dead."

She had to get up. Had to move her legs and _get up_. The Woman was here. She would have to run.

"Perish the thought. If you're so concerned about your patients being 'of use' to you, then you'd better think about moving her. I don't know what kind of dungeon you've set up down there, Regina, but from what I saw — "

"It's for their own good." The Woman's voice had changed, softened. Oozed. "It is imperative that we keep these patients in strict isolation. They are a danger to themselves and to others. You wouldn't want — "

_Up. Get. Up._ She tried to shift her feet. Her legs. They moved. She was pretty sure. She tried — they moved.

"What I want is for you to go away. Her chart said to call you if something happened, so I did. Now you can go get a cup of coffee or get your nails done or ride your damn broomstick around town or whatever it is you do at night. I need to work, and I need you not to be leaning over my shoulder the whole time. She won't be going anywhere for a while."

No straps. Not tied down. She could almost feel toes, her feet now, her hands. _Get up. Get up, get upgetup…_ It was a drumbeat inside her head, panicked and pounding. Her mind spun like a top as the thought hammered away. _NOW!_

"Suz, where's the damn chart? I told you, I want vitals every hour and — "

She lurched upwards, forcing herself forward as the world whirled like a merry-go-round. There was a startled scream. Her eyes — she forced them open and the light blinded her. She crashed into something, somebody, and in a tangle of arms and legs landed hard on the floor.

_Run. _Spots danced across her vision as she fought against the shaking, aching muscles in her arms to push herself up. She saw people. Faces. The Woman. **Decked in jewels and satins and** smirking at her. Then she was moving, before she could think, her mind screaming and her legs just _moving_ — she charged at The Woman. Plowed into her. Sent then both sprawling. The Woman's voice exploded in her ears. "Security!"

_Run — __**run, before the guards come — **_

She ran. Tried to, anyway, tried to remember how but it didn't matter because her legs seemed to move on their own. Doors. Doors everywhere, and her legs headed for the nearest one. Blindly, hoping. People stared, but they didn't try to stop her. Her head was swimming — drowning — the world suddenly pitched to the side, and she crashed into the floor. Her feet immediately started scrambling, her hands heaving herself up, clumsy, slipping, either with the drugs or the panic. It was the strangest feeling, this separation of mind and body. She had to run, she only knew that she had to run, but her legs were taking care of it. They carried her past the warped sea of faces, twisting away from the hands grabbing at her, and her arms flailed out to push at a lone red door.

Then — air. Fresh and damp and cool. And she was outside, with no walls, no walls at all — but she couldn't think about that. _Just run _— _**run and don't look back, don't look back…**_

* * *

_**Don't look back**_**. Don't think. Just go.**

**The castle was still and silent, and the wrongness of it prickled against her skin. The Dark Castle was never silent. Quiet, yes, but usually the background was soft with sounds, the creak of doors opening and closing of their own accord, the whispered words that were always just on the edge of her hearing. Now there was only the scratch of her shoes against the floor. It felt like the stone was holding its breath.**

_**Don't cry.**_ **If she cried now, the sound would scrape along the walls and echo through the corridors. If she cried, he would hear. Still, the pressure of it was like a glass ball in her chest, threatening to crack. **_**Don't cry, and don't look back.**_

**He wouldn't be there even if she did. He was still in the dungeon. Belle was sure of it. He would hide in that damned hole until she was gone, out the castle, off his lands. As if that would prove a point. As if that would make him right.**

**Belle forced herself to head up the stone spiral staircase that led out of the dungeons to the main floor, to pass by the kitchen, which had a back door to the vegetable garden, and the others that led out to the proper gardens or down to the stables. She wouldn't be sent away like a basket of eggs that had gone bad. She was going out the front door.**

**She didn't let herself stop, couldn't, not even to grab a cloak or a better pair of boots. If she waited one minute, she would wait two, and two would become three, and then she would never leave. She would cling to this place, to him, and force him to throw her out, kicking and screaming, if he wanted her gone. He had her heart, but she would keep her pride.**

**The castle doors swung open for her, silent and easy, and Belle told herself she was glad of it. If the doors had been stuck, or locked, if she had to force them open on her own, it would have hurt more. It would have been hope.**

**Outside it was sunny and bright and beautiful. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. The birds were singing.**

_**I promised I would stay with you forever**_**. She'd never broken a promise before, never, and she wanted to feel angry at him for making a liar of her. Wanted to feel anything that wasn't this. Like she was breaking apart from the inside.**

**She marched down the road, not looking back to see if he was watching from the tower (he wasn't, she knew he wasn't). The air had the fresh, damp smell of early spring, with the promise of rain later — and she **_**had**_ **to march out without a cloak just to prove a point — but she didn't care. She only cared about getting as far away as possible while she could still pretend it was her choice, just as much as his. He said he didn't want her, but she was choosing to leave. It was a lie, but it was easier than the truth.**

**Her feet found the road to the village she'd visited only a few days earlier. She needed to be practical. She had nothing but the clothes on her back. She was going to need to find food and shelter, to find a way to work or trade for them — work, probably, since she had nothing to trade with — and figure out where exactly she was going other than **_**away**_**. **

**It was an adventure. She'd always wanted an adventure. She pretended not to notice when she finally started to cry.**


	3. Chapter 3

Her cell was ringing. The official one, the work one. Emma fumbled for it, answering before she was fully awake. "Wha'?"

"Sheriff Swan?"

Emma caught sight of the clock and groaned into her pillow. Never again. She was never going drinking with Ruby, never, ever again — and this time she really meant it. Christ, she'd just gotten to sleep two hours ago.

"Sheriff?"

"Yeah?" She fought her way free of the warm, smooshy pillows and tried again. "Yes, this is the sheriff."

"This is Dr. Whale at Storybrooke General. I'm sorry to call so late, but I need you to come to the hospital."

Icy, full-blooded terror shot her into wide awake. _Henry_. "What is it?"

"We've had a patient escape." His short sigh echoed across the phone line. "Again."

* * *

A thick, chilly mist clung to the air, making it just cold enough that Emma wished she'd stopped to grab a scarf, or her gloves, wherever they were. As it was all she could do was pull the collar of her jacket up around her neck and huff on her hands. Only April, but still spring was slow coming.

Ruby was already in the parking lot when Emma pulled up, leaning against her car. The yellow-tinged lights of the hospital parking lot turned the bright red paint of her car bloody. "I hate you," she called, climbing out of her Bug. "How is it you don't look like complete crap?"

"Easy," Ruby called back. "I'm not old."

"You'll get old. Cow," Emma tossed off, but her heart wasn't in it. There was a paper bag in Ruby's hands and it had Emma's more-than-slightly hung-over hopes soaring. "Is that what I think it is?"

"It shouldn't be." Ruby swung the bag lazily back and forth. "Especially not after you called to drag me out here at three in the morning. I'm freezing my tits off."

"Yeah, well, I'd advise you to wear some actual clothes if you're so worried about your tits." Emma jogged the last couple steps to snatch up the bag, and breathed in deep. It was fragrant with the spicy scent of chai and… "Muffins?" God, they were still warm. Emma dug one out and pulled it apart as they headed to the hospital's main entrance. Steam curled up from the center. "Cranberry. Sweet baby Jesus — Ruby, marry me."

Ruby grinned. "Aw, Goldy, I thought you'd never ask. Actually, they're cranberry and ginger, with a little honey. I was kinda keyed up after we left Carter's, so I headed to the kitchen," she said, her long loping stride easily keeping pace with Emma as they headed into the hospital. "I'm thinking of making them the Monday Muffin for a bit. I'm going to name them after you. 'Cause you're tart and bitter."

"Hardy-har-har," Emma mumbled through a full mouth. She flashed her star at the receptionist, who pointed her towards the ICU. She filled Ruby in on the way. "Dr. Whale called about twenty minutes ago. Said a patient ran out."

Ruby cocked an eyebrow. "Again?"

Emma shrugged.

Ruby grinned, her red, red lipstick exaggerating the movement and adding a lascivious edge. "The docs here really need to work on their bedside manner if they're making all of their patients run off."

A voice purred from behind them. "I assure you, Deputy, our medical staff is second to none. Our security on the other hand…"

Emma rolled her eyes at the too-slick voice she knew in her sleep by now, but oddly enough she wasn't surprised. She was probably beyond surprise at this point, what with this town. Whenever something happened, the Mayor was sure to have her perfectly manicured claws in it. "Regina. Fancy meeting you here."

She might be beyond surprise, but, as she glanced over the Mayor's not-a-hair-out-of-place 'do and wrinkle-free silk shirt, Emma decided she was not beyond a good old-fashioned dose of cattiness. How could that woman look picture-perfect at three in damn the morning? That right there was reason enough to hate her, even if she wasn't an evil queen.

At least the doctor next to her looked human. Mostly. Dr. Whale always seemed to be a bit too glossy for Emma, more like an actor playing at doctor than the real thing. But he'd lost some of that at three in the morning. There were fatigue lines on his face, and his lab coat was rumpled. "Sheriff. Thank you for coming out so quickly."

Emma nodded at him and flipped open her notebook. Next to her, Ruby scrambled for her own notebook. "You said you had a missing person?"

"Yes. One of our long-term patients — or so it seems," he added acidly. "A woman. Caucasian, twenty-four years old, 5'2", brown hair, blue eyes. She was last seen just outside of the hospital, heading towards the woods, wearing green hospital scrubs."

"Scrubs?" Emma glanced up. "I thought you said she was a patient."

"We don't require our long-term patients to run around in those ridiculous hospital gowns," Regina interjected, her foot tapping a machine gun _rata-tat-tat_ against the tile floor.

"Name?"

"Cecelia French," Dr. Whale began, but again Regina interrupted. "But she won't answer to it."

Ruby beat Emma to the question. "Why not?"

"Because she has been a resident of the hospital's psychiatric ward for the past twelve years."

Emma glanced up from her notebook, arching an eyebrow. "Didn't know this place had a psych ward."

"You're not alone," Dr. Whale remarked, staring down Regina.

The Mayor gave an elegant little shrug. "Hardly surprising, doctor. As I understand it, psychiatrics is not your field of expertise."

"No. It's patient care," Dr. Whale replied.

"So what kind of crazy are we talking about?" Emma cut in before Regina could start up.

"Miss French — " Regina hesitated, but like everything about her it was a little too perfect, too practiced. "Well, there are a lot of great big medical words, but when you boil it down, Sheriff, she is simply, and severely, crazy. As you so tactfully put it."

Emma glanced at Dr. Whale, then back to Regina. "She'd have to be to spend twelve years in a nut house."

"Psychiatric ward," Regina agreed. "One might say she is dangerously so."

"'One' might? You say so, doc?" Emma asked Dr. Whale.

"I am not in a position to say anything about Miss French's physical or mental well-being," he replied, with a pointed look at Regina. "As I have never had the opportunity to examine Miss French for myself. Nor," he admitted, "am I a trained psychiatrist."

"Miss French was declared her to be a danger to herself and others by competent medical professionals," Regina put in, smooth as an oil slick.

That meant Hopper, Emma thought. He was the only competent psychiatrist in these parts. He was the only psychiatrist, period. Course, Regina could've called into Boston for someone, or put in a request with the Board of Mental Health or whoever it was that handled this sort of thing at the state level. But Emma didn't think it likely; the Evil Queen liked to keep her cards close to her vest.

"And you said she was headed to the woods? How long ago was that?" Emma asked.

Regina stared her down like it was a challenge before answering. "Since midnight."

Emma looked at Regina, then carefully capped her pen so she didn't stab the woman with it. "Three hours?"

"Two hours and forty-seven minutes, to be precise."

"This dangerous mental patient has been running around for three hours and you only _just_ called the police? If you don't mind me asking — "

"Oh, I'm sure you'll ask anyway, Sheriff."

" — exactly how big of an idiot are you, waiting three goddamn hours to tell the cops about the escape of a, quote, 'dangerous mental patient', unquote?"

Regina arched a single, regal eyebrow. God, Emma hated that look; like she was some Victorian scullery maid who dared to question the lady of the house. "Hospital security was convinced they could recover her on their own. As you can see, they have not. Considering the danger this girl poses to the safety of the citizens of my town, I convinced Dr. Whale and the hospital that it would be in the public's best interest to report this immediately to the proper authorities."

Dr. Whale rolled his eyes and muttered something along the lines of _unbelievable_.

"Really damn thoughtful of you," Emma bit off.

"The safety of my citizens is my first concern."

"You should put that on your posters for your next election," Ruby suggested with a grin. "Really strikes the right balance between caring and condescension."

Regina didn't even glance over. "Thank you, Miss Lucas, I will take it under consideration."

"That's Acting-Deputy Lucas," Ruby returned, her smile going sharp. "Got a badge and everything. Want to see it?" She started rooting around in one of her pockets.

Emma elbowed Ruby before she could flip Regina off, ignoring Ruby's innocent look, and turned her focus back to Dr. Whale. "I'm going to need to know how many security you have on staff, on and off duty. Then have that nice receptionist out there call in your off-duty boys. Ruby, I want you to call the fire department, see if we can get some of them to volunteer, and anybody else you can wake up and get to lend a hand. Three damn hours, Regina, she could be well on her way to Boston now."

Regina rolled her eyes. "I sincerely doubt that."

Dr. Whale cut in. "As much as it pains me to say this, Mayor Mills is right. Miss French's status as a patient in this hospital aside, I doubt she could have gone far in her present condition. She escaped by deliberately overdosing on her medication, and making a run for it once she had been transferred out of the psychiatric ward for proper treatment. We managed to get some charcoal into her and pump her stomach, so odds are good that she's alive, but she would still be very sick."

"Even if she was well enough to run halfway to Boston," Regina said, "the chances are good that she wouldn't. She has family here, so it is entirely likely that she will stay close to town."

Emma thought, _French_. "The florist? Moe."

Regina nodded. She didn't even nod normal; it was one gracious incline of the head, queen to commoner. "Mr. French is her father, yes."

"So it's possible she's headed for him. If she's not there already."

"She is not. I informed Mr. French of his daughter's escape at once, and he assured me that if she does attempt to make contact he will inform the authorities."

"That means you."

"Mr. French is an old friend," Regina replied artlessly. "Besides, his only concern is his daughter's health and well-being. He knows she's best off being treated by professionals."

"Right," Emma kept her focus on her notebook, but it was just nonsense now, lines and doodles. She had to keep her hands busy while her mind thought. "Shouldn't you be getting home to Henry? It's late."

"I couldn't possibly think of leaving while that poor girl is out there somewhere," Regina replied. "And Henry will be fine. I called a sitter."

Emma flipped her notebook closed and stuffed in her back pocket. "Ruby, get started on those calls. Doctor? I'm going to need to talk to Walter, or whoever's in charge of security tonight. I need to know where they searched so far."


	4. Chapter 4

It was another hour until they'd dragged in enough people and the search was set up to Emma's satisfaction. She'd pissed off about half the town, calling to wake them at three in the morning, but they'd showed. Leroy grumbled non-stop since the second he'd pulled his rattling, wheezing truck to a stop, but he'd also hauled over boxes of donuts and a couple vats of coffee, and was passing out refined sugar and caffeine to all who needed it. Dr. Hopper showed up inside of fifteen minutes, hair rumpled and sweater vest inside out, and settled in the doctor's lounge with Cecelia French's file.

Emma knew she should be out there with them, helping them, directing things, and especially keeping an eye on Regina, but…she didn't like the way this smelled. Didn't like that they'd waited to inform the sheriff of a problem in her own damn town, and she really didn't like the fact that Regina was involved. Of course, in Storybrooke sooner or later Regina was always involved, but that didn't mean Emma had to like it. Besides, it wouldn't take long, and Ruby was there, and that girl had a nose for these sort of things. So Emma waited until Madame High Mayor was distracted, left Ruby in charge, and jogged out to her Bug to follow a hunch.

Moe French lived a small one-story house in what Emma had learned was the cheaper part of town, back a bit from the main drag of houses and shops. It was a nice house, with yellow siding and a whitewashed porch and a bit of a garden out back. The scrolly kind of trim that made it look a bit like a gingerbread house. Cozy. If you didn't look too close, that was. If you could ignore the peeling paint, and the sagging porch steps, and the spots where the trim had warped and couple of places where it was actually falling off, and the scummy layer of film over the windows. Only the back garden looked tended to.

Light was streaming out of the dirty windows, into the dark, early morning. Emma eyed it as she took the steps very carefully. Must've had every light in the house burning. _Like a beacon_.

The warped wood of the porch shrieked under her feet as she picked her way to the front door, loud enough that she wasn't surprised when it swung open before she'd had a chance to knock. Moe French stood there, his eyes red-rimmed, then deflated when he saw it was her. "Sheriff."

"Mr. French. I'm sorry to bother you so early — "

"Have you found her yet? Have you found my Lacey?"

"No. I'm sorry, we're still looking. Actually, that's why I'm here. May I come in?"

"Oh, yes, oh, please, please — " Mr. French stepped back and waved Emma in.

Inside the French house was the same as the out: a sense of homey that had long ago dived headfirst into shabby. The rooms, a little small to begin with, were made a lot smaller by the mess. The carpet was stained and rather sticky underfoot; Emma spotted muddy garden boots by the door, so the stains were probably mud. She hoped it was mud. Mr. French led her into a living room. The furniture — sofa, armchair, davenport — had that comfortably worn feeling, or at least what was visible of it underneath the scattered clothes and piles of mail and magazines. The walls, beneath the smudges and the years' worth of dings that hadn't been patched, were papered in a faded but warm shade of peach, and were crowded with pictures. Mostly pictures of three: Mr. French and, presumably, wife and daughter. Mr. French looked different in them, not just younger but taller, happier, steadier. Mrs. French, a tiny, delicate-looking woman, never aged past, Emma guessed, thirty-five. Photos of the little girl didn't go past thirteen or so.

Emma picked one framed photo off an end table. The hospital hadn't had any picture of Cecelia French on hand — well, it was a hospital, not a police station — and, granted, the little girl in the picture was more than a decade off of the woman who'd escaped, but still Emma'd been expecting something…different. To get locked up for a dozen years in a nut house, you had to be seriously nuts. The apple-cheeked, grinning girl in the picture didn't really fit with Emma's mental image of that. Granted, she hadn't had a lot of experience with real, genuine crazies, just the everyday lunatics who could more or less function in society.

There was a wobbly sniff behind her, and Emma turned to Mr. French. He'd been crying, probably straight up until she come to the door, Emma realized, and fought the urge to shift back and forth. She wasn't good with tears, especially the blobby, gummy, blubbery ones that made your face go red and your nose run. Mr. French appeared to specialize in those.

Awkwardly, Emma held up the framed photo. "Mind if I hold onto this? Hospital file didn't have a picture. It might help. I know it's a lot to ask," she added quickly when his eyes filled up again. Mr. French gave her a weak nod, and she eased the photo from the frame. Emma tucked it carefully in her pocket, then glanced around, trying to locate a place to sit that wasn't stained or covered with clothes. She settled for the arm of the couch.

"Mr. French," Emma began, trying to be gentle. She wasn't real good at gentle, either, but he'd started sniffing and scrubbing his face with his shirtsleeve, so she figured she'd give it a try. "I understand Mayor Mills informed you of your daughter's escape from Storybrooke General a few hours ago."

Mr. French nodded. "Called me right after it happened. Said my Lacey got herself sick and ran out. Said she's out there right now, she's sick and out there — " His voice broke on the last bit and he couldn't talk for a little while. Emma looked around for a tissue, paper towel, anything, and found nothing, so she waited it out.

"Did Mayor Mills tell you that she suspects Lacey might come here?" Emma asked after he'd calmed down.

Another nod. "That's why I'm here. Wanted to be out, looking for her, didn't I, but the Mayor said to stay put 'cause my Lacey might run back here. Might want her Dad — "

Emma jumped in before he started crying again. "And have you been here all night?"

"Absolutely, all night," Mr. French assured her wobbly. "Came right back after the Mayor called me, and I've stayed here, in case my Lacey wants her Dad."

"And, uh, where were you before you came right back?"

"Just The Rabbit Hole. Just to have a beer. Man's entitled to have a beer after a hard day's work."

Emma nodded and tried to keep the look-over she sent around the room as casual as could be. "Can you tell me how long you were there?"

"Not long. An hour or two, three, maybe. Knocked off work and went to have a drink. But I came right back when the Mayor called me, and I haven't left, I swear."

"Did you check the house after you got back? To make sure you're alone?"

"Course I'm alone," Mr. French protested. "My Lacey isn't here, she wouldn't hide from her Dad — "

"Do you mind if I take a look around? Just in case?" Emma tried to keep it light, added in a shrug and a bit of a smile. _Golly gee, I'm just a silly Sheriff, wanting to look around._

"No, no, go right ahead," Mr. French waved her on.

It didn't take very long. There wasn't much to the house, and even without the mess there weren't a lot of places to hide. The only part with even a semblance of order was a small bedroom towards the back, decorated for a little girl. Actually, it looked more like it was decorated for the idea of a little girl than a real life child; whoever'd been in charge had gone for pink and lots of it, and they hadn't skimped on the ruffles, either. More photos, in glittery, white-painted frames that looked like they might still have the store stickers on them. The one bookshelf was cluttered with delicate, spindly porcelain figurines, too, the kind that never would've survived a real kid. A couple of _Baby-Sitters' Club_ books and a kid's diary — pink, plastic-looking cover with a cheap metal lock — on the nightstand by the bed.

Emma wondered if Mr. and Mrs. French had it done after their daughter'd been committed, and then felt a little ashamed of thinking it.

Mr. French was sitting on the sofa when she headed back downstairs. He'd found a tissue, or something, and was scrubbing his eyes with it. "All clear," Emma told him. "I appreciate you letting me take a look, Mr. French."

"I told you she wasn't here," he choked.

"Standard procedure. For the report, you know." She eased herself onto the arm of a chair. "Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions? For the report," Emma added again, taking her notebook out of her back pocket.

"Is this going to help find my Lacey?" Mr. French asked.

"Every little bit helps. For instance, I was hoping you could give me a list of Lacey's friends, other relatives, folks in town other than you that she might go to for help."

Mr. French shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut against more tears. "I'm the only family she has, and she was locked up so long ago, my poor girl, she wouldn't know anyone else here."

"Mayor Mills told me that your daughter was…" Emma searched for a tactful way to say it. She wasn't real good at tact either. She finally settled on: "…in the hospital for quite some time."

He nodded.

"Twelve years, she said."

Mr. French sniffed. "Twelve this May. My Lacey, she was just fourteen when her mum died. It was bad, bad." He glanced at a picture of his wife, serene, smiling up from the faded wallpaper. "Attacked in the woods, she was. By a bear, they said, or some kind of wild dog. My Lacey couldn't handle it. The Mayor said she had a…a 'psychotic break.'" The words were choked off for a second as the tears spilled over. "Had to be committed," he blubbered. "Very close to her mum, she was, and my Lacey's always been very fragile. Her mum, too. It's not my fault. Her mum died and my Lacey, she just went over the edge. She was sick, so sick — went right over the edge, the Mayor said. I couldn't help her, I _tried_, but she needed real help, proper help, from doctors. She was dangerous, the Mayor said, my Lacey was dangerous, she could hurt herself. It's not my fault — I was just trying to do what's best for her." The tears were racing out now, and he choked on them.

Emma stared down at rumpled blue-lined paper of her notebook as she felt something click together. _It's not my fault,_ Emma thought. _It's your fault, it's not my fault, _and the sound of Mr. Gold's cane whistling through the air echoed in her head. _Be honest, Swan. _She'd already been thinking about him, hadn't she? _It's __your_ _fault, it's not __my_ _fault_. She'd been thinking about his voice, and the way he swung that cane. She'd been thinking about the way he'd shouted _you were her __father_.

"You're sure your daughter didn't have any friends in town?" Emma asked again, and turned to eye Mr. French. "Girls her age. Ashley? Ruby?"

Mr. French sniffed at that, but this time it wasn't because of the tears. "My Lacey wouldn't hang out with girls like that, my Lacey was a good girl."

"Good girls sometimes like to hang out with people their parents won't approve of," Emma remarked carefully, and just as carefully added, "Mr. Gold?"

"Mr. Gold? Why would — Gold's an evil, evil man — my Lacey was a _good_ girl, I tell you," Mr. French insisted, his indignation overcoming his tears for the moment. "Besides, my Lacey was just a little girl when she went into that place. She doesn't know anyone. Only me, and she's so sick she probably doesn't even know who I am either." Then his composure faltered, cracked, broke, and he began to cry again, noisy blubbering tears. Emma looked away.

"You, uh, need to call me if she comes here." Emma scribbled quickly on a scrap of paper. "That's my cell."

"I will, I absolutely will. You'll be my first call, right after the mayor."

Emma fought the urge to grind her teeth as she flipped her notebook closed and stuffed it in her back pocket. "I would appreciate that. You seem to be healing up nicely," she added. "After the wallop Mr. Gold gave you."

"No thanks to him," Mr. French returned, and Emma swallowed the _well, no, obviously_ that welled up in her throat. "Wouldn't even pay my hospital bills, after what he did to me. Thousands of dollars I got to pay, and he won't lay down a dime, the bastard. Offered to run me a loan, he did, but the Mayor put a stop to that. She's helping me with the money, or else I'd have to take his deal, wouldn't I? She says I could sue him, I could get twice what I owe."

_But you won't_, Emma thought as she stalked back to her car. _Because you're afraid of him. Everyone's afraid of him. Because no matter what you try to do to him, he can do worse to you._

* * *

Emma tried not to smirk when Mr. Gold answered the door. She hadn't figured him as the flannel pajama bottom type — more a black velvet dressing gown embroidered with the teeth of his enemies. Maybe a necklace of skulls, though, on second thought, she figured that might be a little too tacky for him. "Sorry to disturb you, but I need to ask you some questions."

"Isn't it a little late for an interrogation, Sheriff?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe. Taking weight off his bad leg, she noted, and felt a brief twinge of _yeah, you're an asshole _for making him come to the door at — she checked — Christ, 4:27 in the morning.

"Actually, it's early, and if it could've waited, I would've. It's about your recent arrest."

He didn't so much as blink. It was a little unnerving how he just…watched. Most people participated — in conversations, in life, in other people — but as far as she'd seen, Mr. Gold always held a part of himself back. Watching. Only time she'd ever seen him fully into something was when he was whaling on Mr. French with his cane.

"When you attacked Mr. French," Emma reminded him when he didn't say anything. "Specifically when the arresting officer — that would be me — came upon you beating the hell out of Mr. French with your cane while exclaiming, quote, '_she's gone, it's your fault, you were her father_.' Unquote. I'm going to have to ask you again to identify the 'she' you were talking about. Again."

He barely lifted an eyebrow. "Memorized it, have you, Sheriff?"

"I've been looking into it."

"And I have told you, it is none of your concern."

"Yeah, well, as Sheriff I have both the freedom and the responsibility to look into anything that doesn't smell right. Like one of our most prominent citizens kidnapping and assaulting another. Besides," Emma shrugged, "one guy starts beating on another guy, railing at him about '_she's dead, it's your fault_,' all of that, it piques my curiosity."

"You know what they say about curiosity and the cat."

"Yeah. '_Satisfaction brought it back_.' Can you please identify the 'she' you were referring to as you repeatedly struck Mr. French with your cane?"

Mr. Gold gave her a crocodile smile, leisurely and lethal, and mimicked her shrug. "I'm afraid it must have slipped my mind."

"Mind if I take a stab at it? You know, since we're both here. Cecelia French. Daughter of Moe French. Goes by Lacey."

The hesitation was so slight Emma would've missed it if she hadn't been waiting for it. "Mr. French does not have a daughter."

Emma cocked an eyebrow. "Twenty-six years old, 5'2", brown hair, blue eyes, none of this is familiar."

Mr. Gold shook his head, smile still in place. But his knuckles were white where his hand tightened on the doorframe. Emma pulled the picture of Cecelia French out of her pocket it, held it up for him. "This was taken a while ago, but still. No? Nothing?"

He didn't so much as glance at it. "Is that why you're here at four o'clock in the morning? Chasing ghosts?"

"Almost five, and I'm here because Lacey French escaped from the psych wing of Storybrooke General four and a half hours ago."

Mr. Gold straightened, the smile still pinned to his face. "And you come here."

"Call it a hunch. You mind if I take a look around?" Emma asked. "Your shop, too."

Mr. Gold looked at her for a moment, then stepped back.

He waited in the living room while Emma — stuffing the photo in her pocket haphazardly enough that it _accidentally_ fell out — took a look around. Kitchen, study, dining room, parlor — who the hell had a parlor anyway? A library, too, and more than two full bathrooms. If this Mary Margaret thing didn't work out maybe he'd need a roommate. Sure, he was basically evil incarnate, but Emma was prepared to put up with a lot for the sake of a Victorian claw-foot tub. The place looked like his pawn shop; dark and close, with lots of little knick-knacks and odds and ends, but every inch of space was polished and properly dusted and she'd bet he knew where exactly where every damn trinket went.

Mr. Gold was still sitting on the sofa when she came back. The photo in his hand. He glanced up when she entered, but it took a second. Had to pull his gaze away. "I'm going to head down to your shop now," Emma told him. "I have to ask for your keys."

"Of course." Mr. Gold stood, stiffly, and held the photo out to her. "I believe you dropped this."

"Thanks." And she watched as he watched as she stuffed the picture back in her pocket. "Can't think how I missed that."

"I'm sure you can't."

"Still sure you don't know her?" Emma asked.

He met her gaze and held it. "I am quite certain I have never met a Cecelia French in my life."

_Truth_. Which surprised her, but if there was one thing Emma could count on, it was the little hook in her chest that said when someone was lying. Course, another thing she could count on was that she couldn't trust a damn word Gold said; he didn't lie — well, often — but he liked to play with the truth, spin a version of it that best suited him. "Right," Emma said. "And I'm sure if she came to you for help, you'd call it in. Being the fine, upstanding citizen that you are, and her being a dangerous escaped mental patient."

Gold's voice was low. "We are all dangerous, Sheriff. If given reason." He turned away from her. "If you will excuse me a moment, I'll get you those keys."


	5. Chapter 5

The water woke her. The cold. The wind. The all of it, which turned into an ache that pulled her from deep, thick-headed dreams heavy with the scent of straw, and into reality. She tried to turn over — her left arm was twisted up with something hard and prickling — and coughed up water she didn't remember swallowing. It burned on the way out, her throat and lungs raw as she choked and sputtered. The sunlight was the dull, dim blue of early morning.

**It was like that first morning again. The moment of confusion. This wasn't her bed. It wasn't even the stone floor of the dungeon he'd kept her in — in the very beginning, and then again, at the end. She felt her heart cracking apart even further, and then the sunlight on her face brought her all the way up and she remembered. **_**I'm not there anymore.**_ **Not ever again. He had made his choice, and she had left.**

**How**…where…

Cold. And wet. And she was on something hard. A rock? The sense of damp and wood made its way through her clouded senses. A log. She was caught on a log. Mostly. She was tangled up in it, her legs trailing out in the frigid water, bobbling along with the current. She could feel them, or only just. Feel the rocks and silt of the riverbed scrape along her feet. Feel the cold. The icy, bone-deep, aching cold. And, as she sluggishly climbed back into consciousness, feel the pain. The sharp, freezing splinters of sensation that stabbed every time she moved.

It was too much, too much, for the syrupy fog of her mind. The cold. The pain. Too much, she couldn't, couldn't —

But she could. She had to — she had to _keep moving_. Her fingers closed around branches, and she could feel them. Feel her hands. Make them open, close around another branch. Pull herself, slow and aching, along the log to the riverbank. The rocks dug into her hands and knees as she dragged herself up and out of the water. Felt her feet scrape and slip against the rocks, and her arms gave out, and she felt the mud of the riverbank ooze under her clothing. She wanted to lay there for a moment. Forever. But she had to keep moving **the Queen was coming for her** and...her arms, she could still feel her arms. So she crawled until she found some grass, leaves, something that felt softer at least, and let herself drop. Her arms felt like they were on fire from the effort, and her stomach was a sick, roiling pit. A sour taste rose in her throat. She managed, barely, to heave herself up, onto her side before vomiting, then, exhausted, let herself fall onto her back. Shivering, she stared up into the branches overhead. _They're not the right green_, she thought, and it felt like there was something more, something just on the edge of understanding, but her mind couldn't hold on any longer. It stumbled, tripped, and she tumbled over the brink into the blackness.

* * *

**The first night she'd spent in a forest was the worst. The worst night she'd spent in a forest, the worst night she'd ever spent, the worst moment of her life. Later on, when things got bad, Belle would tell herself that nothing could be as bad as that night, and remind herself that she'd made it through that. She'd left the Dark Castle late in the day, or at least that's what she told herself because night had sunk so quickly and she wasn't even halfway to the village. She was exhausted, and unthinking, and she hadn't brought anything with her, so she'd found a patch of ground that didn't have too many rocks and tried to sleep. She hadn't known anything, hadn't cared where she was, hadn't a blanket or a fire, only tears.**

**And, very late in the night, when she was almost completely asleep, she'd seen torches. Little pinpricks of light in the dark.**

* * *

Sunshine started to glint, then glare, through the windows before Emma let herself lean back and take a break. She'd been staring at a map of the Storybrooke woods for…she wasn't exactly sure how long, and it was starting to blur before her eyes. Okay — _honest, Swan — _it'd been blurry for a bit, but now it was getting bad enough that she was actually having trouble distinguishing all the little lines from all the other little lines. Christ, there were a lot of lines. Blue and brown blobs, too. Though they had been able to cross off a good bit of it. The trouble was, there was a whole lot more woods around than she'd expected. She thought she'd gotten a good sense of things after David Nolan's little sleepwalking adventure, but it turned out she'd only seen a fraction of all the damn trees.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut and pinched her nose, trying to massage some of the tiredness away. It wasn't really working. But at least she wasn't full-on passed out at the makeshift desk the hospital'd let her set up…though, to be fair, at the moment, she was having trouble remembering why that was a bad idea. Her mind dutifully dredged up _you wouldn't want people seeing the Sheriff of Storybrooke passed out on the job_. Which, okay, was true, even if most of them were decent folk who'd cut the Sheriff a freakin' break, seeing as the reason she was passed out was she'd been doing her job on two hours sleep for the past — Emma glanced at the clock. She saw the little hand. She saw the big hand. She saw numbers. Her brain refused to go any further than that.

_You don't want Regina finding out you passed out on the job._

Now, _that_ was a very good reason.

Emma pinched her nose again, harder — maybe if reasoning herself awake didn't work, pain would — when the bitter, beautiful smell of coffee blossomed from somewhere nearby. From right in front of her. Emma opened her eyes just enough to locate and then seize the Styrofoam cup, not caring that it scalded her throat as she drank.

"It's not very good," Dr. Hopper said, "just from the machine down the hall, but you look like you could use it."

"I could. Thanks." Emma drained the rest one go. "Do me a favor, doc?"

He smiled. It seemed unfair that he could be so awake and cheerful. "Of course."

"What time is it?" Dr. Hopper glanced at the clock over the door, then back to her. "My brain's not letting me read numbers right now."

"Seven-fifteen. In the morning."

Five hours, then. Which was not actually all that bad, she shouldn't feel this awful. "Thanks. And thanks for coming in."

"I'm happy to help," he said, shrugging off her thanks. He settled across from her with his own coffee, and she noted that his sweater vest was still inside out. And the wrong way around, too. That shouldn't have been as comforting as it was. "May I ask, if you don't mind, how the search is going?"

"Right now?" Emma rubbed her eyes again. "We're thinking she's still in the woods somewhere. I checked out the town, talked to Mr. French and Gold — "

"Gold?" Dr. Hopper asked, his blue eyes surprised and just a little confused behind his glasses.

"Yeah. It was nothing, just a stupid — whatever."

"Is that why he was here?"

"Wait, he's here?" Emma asked.

"I saw him, a little while ago," Dr. Hopper said, glancing towards the door. "I thought he might have heard about our situation and...come to help." He sounded as if he bought that just as much as she did.

"Well, we need it." Emma raked a hand through her hair, and forced herself to sit up straighter. "Unless someone is in the habit of hiding disheveled pj'd mental patients out of the kindness of their hearts, odds are she's not in town. Everybody'll be up soon, anyway." Seven-am meant work and breakfast and normal, everyday things. "So if Lacey heads into town, somebody'll see her."

"If she's in a position to," Dr. Hopper added. "If she is conscious, and well, and uninjured."

"Yeah, that," Emma agreed, tilting her coffee cup in case there was a drop or two that she'd missed. He passed his to her. "You're a saint, Archie Hopper."

He blushed. He actually blushed, but he managed to smile and say, "Be sure and tell Rome so. I've been attempting to apply for canonization for years, but you would be surprised how persnickety they can get."

Something close to a laugh had Emma almost choking on her coffee. "I knew it. I knew you were that kind of guy."

Dr. Hopper looked slightly thrown off-kilter at that — but, to be fair, he seemed like the type of guy who got thrown off-kilter at most things. "What kind of guy would that be?"

"The kind that uses 'persnickety' at seven in the morning. Next time warn a girl first if you're going to start throwing around words with more than one syllable."

He smiled and relaxed slightly. "If you don't mind me saying, you look exhausted, Sheriff."

Emma waved it away. "I'll be fine. After a while it gets to a point where you forget what it's like to feel rested."

"I can't think that's the best choice, physically or emotionally."

Emma shrugged again. She was starting to feel the first faint echoes of caffeine buzzing behind the grainy fog of fatigue. A couple minutes and she'd be functional.

"If you want my advice, as a doctor — "

"Psychiatrist."

" — which is still applicable under these circumstances — " He put a hand on her arm. It was warm, even through her jacket, and she realized, as the goosebumps pricked along her skin, just how cold the room was. It was still just April, but the hospital had the air conditioning on. "Go home," he told her. "Or to the station. But get out, get away from here, and get some sleep. As well as something to eat."

"I'm not your patient, Dr. Hopper," Emma sniped, letting the tiredness overtake her mouth.

"No, but I would hope that I am your friend," he said.

"My friends don't call the cops on me," she said back, and Dr. Hopper took his hand away, and sat back in his chair. "I am…sorry about that," he murmured, looking away.

Emma felt the twist in her gut, and hated that she felt it. She held grudges, she was good at it, it was what she did. She wasn't supposed to feel bad about it. He was the one that called Graham and claimed she'd broken into his office and stole files. "Whatever. It happened. I'll get some rest. There's just — a lot I have to do before I can think about cutting out. I haven't even had the chance to ask you about Lacey."

"Yes," Dr. Hopper said after a moment. "I've been wanting to talk to you about that, too."

"I know you can't violate patient confidentiality. I'm not going to ask you to," Emma told him. "But I was hoping that, as her doctor, you might be able to give me some tips on where to look or what to look for. What might be going through her head. Anything that can help us find her."

"I'm afraid that in this instance, patient confidentiality is not an issue. I'm not Miss French's psychiatrist. She's not my patient."

"I thought…" Emma shook her head, willing the caffeine to kick in faster. "Correct me if I'm wrong, doc, but I thought you were the only shrink in town."

"I am."

"Then…is there someone else who treats the hospital craz — uh, mental patients?"

"No. There's not. I am the only licensed psychiatrist in Storybrooke. The hospital has called me in from time-to-time, but, Emma — " He leaned forward and dropped his voice, and he didn't look off-kilter now, but very focused. " — until you called, I was not aware that Storybrooke General had any psychiatric facilities."

It was weird how her brain tried to reject that. How she could still be surprised. "But they have a psychiatric ward."

"It appears that they do. There's also this." Dr. Hopper dug a thin file folder out of his bag and settled it on the table. Emma could see the bright blue sticker reading FRENCH on the label. Emma raised an eyebrow. "I'm not going to let you read it. But I will tell you that when someone is committed there is…paperwork that you have to go through. Even more if it's an involuntary commitment, and particularly if the case of a minor. Which, I understand, Miss French was when she was first brought in."

Emma eyed the folder. It was so thin as to look almost empty.

"Committing someone is not a simple thing. Nor is it a permanent one. There is a yearly evaluation, and if continued commitment is deemed necessary, there's more. There are forms to be filled out every time medication is dispensed, or the patient has a session, or, for heaven's sake, if a mouse sneezes too close." Archie raked a hand through his hair. "We live in a world of paper and words, Sheriff, and what I can tell you is that there are _none_ of them here. There is an initial commitment form from twelve years ago. That is it."

The sick feeling in her stomach had nothing to do with caffeine. "That can't be right."

"It's not. What it is, is potentially very illegal."

Emma looked at him. "Regina."

"That would not be for me to say," he replied, holding her gaze.

"No, doc." Emma straightened in her chair. "That's my job."

* * *

When consciousness came again, she was already up and moving. Stumbling along the riverbank, the rocks digging into her feet. It should've hurt more, but the water was so cold, and her feet had started to go numb a long time ago. She put one foot forward, and then the other, and back again. Focusing on that, and not the cold, or the numbness, or the ache that seemed to go beyond muscle and bone, until it was everything. Until it was the only thing.

She needed to keep moving. She was not sure how long it had been since she'd escaped. Not long enough for The Woman to stop looking. She needed things, — dry clothes. Food. Her stomach twisted at the thought, but this time it wasn't the usual, sick, ache that had been shadowing her since she'd climbed out of the river. She'd hadn't thrown up for…a while now. There couldn't be anything left in her. Her throat still burned, though, and it felt cracked and dry.

_Water,_ she thought. She needed water more than food. But she put it off as long as she could, because it meant trying the river, and that would've meant getting down on her hands and knees, and she wasn't sure she could get back up again. That would've meant stopping, and more than food or water, she needed to keep moving. She needed to get farther before she stopped. Far enough away that maybe she could find a place where The Woman couldn't follow and **the Queen's guards couldn't catch her**. Her feet stumbled as she battled back the fear before it swallowed her whole.

Moving. Keep moving...that was the thing. Everything else could come later, when she was safe.

But then her body decided for her, her legs dropping out from under her, and she landed with a heavy squish in the mud of the riverbank. For a long moment there was only the cold and wet.

The lap of the river against the shore brought her back. She managed to drag herself to the river's edge, and drank. For a moment there was only the sound of her gulping, of the birds and the crickets, the wind rustling through the leaves and the snap of dry twigs underfoot —

She froze. The sounds of the forest stretched out around her. Maybe if she was quiet, if she was still —

_No._ There it was again. Someone coming. Someone who didn't care if they were heard. Coming towards her.

She fought to forced herself to her feet and into run. Not caring if she was quiet, only caring about getting away as fast as she could. She could control of her legs, if she forced herself, and if they were weak and wobble, at least they ran. But her head was still muddy, and her feet were dead with cold, and the riverbank was a tangle of driftwood and debris. She didn't see the root that sent her flying. She landed awkwardly, and her head reeled in a whirligig.

It was still spinning when she heard the footsteps come to a stop right behind her. "Are you okay?"

The voice made her pause. Cut through the fear and the pounding in her chest and the need to _run, run away_. Slowly, she turned. It was…a child. A boy, small and slight, his eyes huge and oddly serious behind owlish glasses.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

* * *

"**Can I help you, dearie?"**

**Belle's heart leapt, but it was only an old woman, gray and wrinkled. She forced herself to smile, to not wonder whether or not he could shapeshift. "Yes, please. Could you tell me where the miller is?"**

"**Off making deliveries. He won't be back til supper. Is it straw or flour you're after? Flour he does himself, but if it's straw you can help yourself to a bundle and leave your coin in the box by the window."**

"**No, I — " How to put this? It was a blind hope, coming here. She'd only been once before, when he'd sent her to the village for some straw, not expecting her to come back. The miller had been kind to her then, even though he'd guessed where she was from, and chatted to her for a while. Perhaps he would be kind again. She needed money, wherever she was going, and since she wouldn't steal and was not yet at begging, she would have to work. "I was hoping for work, actually. I was here a few days ago, and the miller mentioned having deliveries. More than he could handle alone, and I thought… If he doesn't need help, perhaps there is someone who wants a cook or a maid, or even a girl-of-all-work, if one's needed? I'm stronger than I look, and I'm not afraid of hard work."**

**The woman was looking at her oddly, but that was no wonder. How long had she been standing here before the woman noticed her and came over? Belle wasn't entirely sure. She had only meant to find the miller, or someone who might know where he was, except he had only just finished his work, and the mill was full with the scent of straw. That scent was everywhere in the Dark Castle; it was there even when it wasn't, warm and dry and sweet, pricking at the back of her mind, because when it was there it meant he was there, at his wheel, spinning…**

"**A few days ago, you said?" The old woman's voice, sharp as a blade, cut through the memory, and the pain.**

**Belle blinked rapidly, and nodded. "Yes, I — "**

"**Go back."**

"**What?" The woman looked stern and…frightened, Belle realized. She hadn't mentioned where she came from when she'd spoke to the miller before, but she supposed when a young woman came just looking for straw this close to the Dark Castle, it wasn't too difficult to figure out. "No. I…" What — **_**won't**_**? **_**Can't**_**? Belle wasn't entirely sure. He'd told her to go, and she'd gone; it was a deal of sorts, and she intended to keep it.**

**The old woman grabbed Belle's arm, hard. "I tell you to go back, girl. You can't run away, not from Him. He'll be after you and it'll be more than our lives are worth if we help you and He finds out. Go back and pretend you never left."**

_**He won't come after me.**_ **But she didn't let herself say it. Words had power, and she didn't want to make it true by saying it aloud. "I have nothing. Please. I need help. Food, a dry place to sleep tonight. I will work for it — "**

**The old woman glared at her through all this, but finally threw up her hands. "Very well — very well, then, girlie," she interrupted when Belle tried to speak again. "I'm sure the miller won't mind if you spend the night in his loft. Might have an egg or two that I could part with. Bit of cheese." Belle started to thank her, but the woman cut her off again, jabbing a finger at her. "But — you were never here, understand? We never saw you. And in the morning, you're gone."**

**Belle nodded. "Thank you."**

**But the woman was already charging out, leaving Belle alone with the scent of straw.**


	6. Chapter 6

Henry looked at the strange lady sitting in the river. She was wearing green hospital scrubs. They looked soaked, and there were goosebumps running all up her skin, and her lips were blue. Blue-ish, he amended. He hadn't seen her before. How had he not seen her before? He'd seen everyone in this town. But then things were changing all the time, now that Emma was here, and he wondered what kind of change she was.

He dropped his backpack on the ground, and she flinched like it had been a gunshot and tried to push herself up and away. It didn't work. It was like her legs didn't want to hold her up. Henry went still as he could, eventually the lady started crying. Not regular big-sobbing crying, but just tears streaming down her face, and her hands still dug into the wet mud of the riverbank, as if she could just pull herself along and away.

Slowly, Henry crouched down and unzipped his backpack. He had a water bottle in his bag. She was watching him, tears still streaking down her face, her eyes huge and blue and desperate. He got the bottle out and, after thinking about it for a second, rolled it over to her. It bumped into her knee, and then bobbled gently in the water. She was still watching him, but her hands closed carefully around the bottle. Then the strange lady drank it down, almost in one gulp.

When she was done he — slowly — rifled through his pack, coming up with the Snickers he bought this morning. He tried to roll it towards her, but it got stuck halfway. So he stood.

She went still at that, the super-stillness of a rabbit who'd spotted a wolf. _Tharn_, he thought. He was reading _Watership Down_ at the moment. She was tharn, and it didn't sit right with him. He didn't like the idea of being tharned at, as if he was something scary. He'd seen enough of people being scared at other people, because it was impossible not to, living with his mother. It wasn't a good thing to see. He didn't like tharning someone.

Carefully (and he was really good at being careful), Henry walked over to where the candy bar was stuck in the mud. He picked it up, and took another step, and another, until he was at the water's edge. He held the Snickers out. She took it, and Henry tried to get a look at her nails, trying to see if the nail beds were blue, which he remembered was something to look out for from First Aid class, or something like it, only then he noticed her wrists. They looked…strange. Scarred, he realized, and she had a plastic bracelet around one. He could see half of a stamp — '…brooke Gener…" He couldn't see if there was a name. "Is that from the hospital?" he asked, nodding to the bracelet. "Were you in the hospital?"

She went tharn again, and he liked it even less this time. His mother loved tharning people, but he didn't know why. It felt awful.

"Are you sick?" he asked. "If you're sick, I can call them — "

She shook her head and struggled to get to her feet again. This time it worked.

Henry shot up after her and held out his hands. "I won't, I won't! I promise. Here." He picked up the candy bar and offered it to her again.

She was still watching him, poised to flee. But her fingers closed around it.

And the next second she _inhaled_ it. Like she was really starving. It made him think about the food drive they'd done in school for the homeless, and how Miss Blanchard told them all about people who were living on the streets and didn't get enough to eat, and he'd felt bad, but not as bad as he felt now. Henry realized he hadn't understood, not really, what it meant to be hungry. He realized he'd never been hungry, not really, not ever, and the thought made his stomach ache.

Henry went back to his backpack, made sure it was all zipped up with all the zippers on the right side, and swung it onto his shoulders.

They heard the voices at the same time. He could tell from the way her head shot up, and the way she went completely still, and from the total and absolute terror on her face. Henry knew he should think about this, or even call to the voices to let them know where they were. After all — strange woman, with a hospital band, still sitting in the river — it wasn't too hard to figure things out. But Henry didn't let himself think about it. He looked at her face, and he heard himself say, "I know a place where you can hide out. If you want."

The strange lady looked at him. Then nodded. Henry held out a hand and she looked at that, too, but she took it. His stomach ached again, because he was _ten_ and her hand felt thin and fragile, and not very much bigger than his.

She was shaky, and she didn't move very fast, but they moved fast enough to leave the voices behind them.

* * *

He took her to the cabin. It was set back a bit in the woods, though it was by a road, and it was in good shape, even though it had been abandoned for longer than Henry could remember. Maybe when the curse was broken somebody would remember who owned it, but for now it was just a place with a roof on it where the older kids liked to come to kiss and stuff after school, and where Mr. Gold liked to take the people he kidnapped, like when Mr. French had robbed Mr. Gold's house and Mr. Gold had wanted to talk to Mr. French about it. Henry thought it had been stupid of Mr. French to try to steal from Mr. Gold, but even at ten Henry knew that Mr. French wasn't (as Leroy liked to put it) the shiniest diamond in the mine. Henry also knew that his mom had asked Mr. French to rob Mr. Gold, and when Henry's mom asked people to do things they did them, stupid or not.

Henry was pretty sure the cabin was safe, though. No one was going to come today, because the cabin was old enough that it didn't have insulation and it was really cold outside. Plus after Mr. Gold had taken Mr. French there, Emma had bolted the windows and put a padlock on the door. It wasn't hard to pick, though; Henry was good with locks.

Inside it was cold and dark, but it was a step above being outside, although that was probably the best that could be said of it. The strange lady padded into the middle of the cabin, her bare feet streaking the layer of dust on the floor, and stood there, looking around. Her arms were wrapped around her so tight he could see the muscles standing out under her skin, and he could hear her teeth chattering. Henry dug through the closets and cabinets he found a couple of dusty blankets and some old clothes. They were huge, but they were dry. He set them on a table.

The strange lady didn't move. She just stood there, looking around.

"You should be okay here," Henry said. "Nobody comes here." He shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder. "I, uh, have to get to school."

The strange lady looked at him, then. Her face was so pale, and her blue eyes were so bright that she looked like a ghost, standing there in the dark cabin. She gave him a little nod, and then something that was almost a smile. Like she was trying to smile but she forgot how. It made her seem less strange and more just like somebody who was scared and cold and just trying to figure out what was going on. That made him feel worse, somehow.

Henry nodded back and headed for the door. Then stopped. He looked at her footprints in the dust; they were smeared with something that wasn't just dirt. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

The lady blinked and looked down at her feet, as if she was only realizing it for the first time. She lifted one foot, and Henry saw, underneath the layer of caked mud, the gash. It didn't look good.

"Stay right here. I'll be right back."

* * *

It took a bit to get back into town, but Henry figured that didn't matter. He had probably already passed the way-too-late-for-school mark. The principal had probably called his mother by now, and his mother had probably already called Emma to send out a search party. And Emma would find him — she was good at finding things — so Henry used the time to think up a story of why he wasn't at school. He was good with stories. He had heard the older kids talking about skipping school, and decided he should give it a try. That might work. He thought Emma was probably the type to have skipped a lot of school when she was a kid. But he probably should stick closer to the truth; Emma was also really good at True or False. So maybe it should be that he had taken a shortcut through the woods (which was true) and had gotten distracted and lost track of time. (Which was sort of true, even though Henry made it a point to never ever lose track of time. Not even now that the clock tower was working.)

He didn't run into anyone on his way into town, though — most people were probably at work — and the streets were more or less empty as he hurried to Leroy's. Ashley Boyd was there when Henry went in, her baby on her hip, but she was the only one and she and Leroy were gossiping up at the counter and didn't look up when the door chimed. Henry hurried into the First Aid aisle, and grabbed some gauze and bandages and Neosporin. Then he went an aisle over, where there was a whole shelf devoted to granola bars and those meal replacement things with pictures of bodybuilders on them.

" — as tired as I feel."

"Yeah, well, being up half the night looking for an escaped loony is probably almost as exhausting as dealing with a baby." But Leroy was smiling and letting the baby grab at his fingers. He looked over when Henry set his stash on the counter and smirked. "Hey, Henry. Hey, shouldn't you be in school?"

"Yes," Henry said. Leroy was nice, and besides Henry didn't like lying. He was good at it, but he didn't like it.

"Okay, then." Leroy looked down at the pile and smirked. "Trying to bulk up?"

"Yes," Henry said.

"You might as well stick to Snickers. These things have just as much sugar," Leroy said, ringing him up.

Henry didn't say anything, which was what he usually did when he didn't know what to say, and besides grown-ups never seemed to really listen anyway. But he thought about it, and added a couple Snickers to the pile. The lady seemed to like the one he gave her.

The door chimed again, and this time Leroy and Ashley did look up. And they stopped smiling.

"Good morning," Mr. Gold said.

Leroy tossed back a "'Morning," but Ashley didn't say anything. She hurried to stuff her purchases in the baby bag she was carrying and left. Mr. Gold smiled and held the door for her, then strolled over to the magazine rack. He began to flip through one.

"This ain't a library," Leroy said, bagging Henry's things.

"My apologies." Mr. Gold flipped the magazine closed and brought it over to the counter. "So. What is all this excitement I've been hearing about? Seems there was something of a to-do at the hospital."

"Like you don't know," Leroy said. "That'll be twenty-two fifty, kid."

"I heard something about…an escaped patient. Another one," Mr. Gold said.

Leroy sniffed, but everybody in town knew he loved to gossip. "That's a nice way of putting it. A freakin' nut is what she is. Ruby told me — apparently they're housing a bunch of nutjobs up at the hospital, right near town, where anybody could run if they got out. And they don't freakin' tell anyone."

"I can't imagine why not," Mr. Gold said.

"Cause Madame High Mayor knows everybody'd freak out if they knew some loonies were stored up here in Storybrooke, that's why," Leroy said, making change for Henry. "People are really upset. You better believe she's going to have to answer for this."

Mr. Gold smiled. "I believe it."

Henry glanced at Mr. Gold, but he was smiling benignly (Henry had learned that word from _Dracula_) (reading it, that was; he'd yet to meet the actual one) (actually, he really hoped there wasn't an actual one). It didn't feel benign, though.

"I gather," Mr. Gold continued, "they have yet to locate the…patient."

"Not since the last I heard, though Walter did radio in to say Ruby's found some tracks leading to the river. Maybe she decided to go for a dip," Leroy joked.

"You must have looked all over by now."

"Jesus, sure feels like it." Leroy shook his head. "Do you know how big those woods are? But sheriff's being real organized about it. Starting at the hospital, and branching out — least, that's what I heard before I had to head in — "

Henry grabbed his change and his bag and hurried to the door.

"Good morning, Henry." Mr. Gold finished paying for his magazine, and turned smoothly to smile at him. This one did not seem quite so benign. "A little late for school, aren't we?"

"Yes. Excuse me," Henry said, and rushed out.

And right into Emma.

"Woah, woah, woah, kid, where's the fire?" She pushed him back a bit and cocked an eyebrow. Her hair was messy and her clothes were rumpled and she looked exhausted, but she was smiling at him. "Aren't you supposed to be in school?"

"Yes," Henry tried, but the odds were slim that she would find it as adorably precocious as Leroy had. He probably wouldn't get away with it.

She didn't. She smirked, instead, and said, "Mind me asking what you have there?"

"Yes," Henry said.

Emma crossed her arms. "Whatdya have there?"

"Things." Not lying to Emma was sometimes as tricky as lying to Emma. You had to stick to one word answers, and after a while that gave you away as much as the lying.

"'Things.'" Emma cocked a grin at him. "Real wordsmith, aren't you? Okay, fess up, let's see what you've got, kid."

"Let's see your warrant first, Sheriff," Henry told her.

"I don't need a warrant to check my — " She stopped saying whatever it was she'd been about to say. Henry was fine with that. He hadn't really wanted to hear it. "Why aren't you in school?" she demanded, joking done.

Henry briefly debated the _took-a-shortcut-through-the-woods-got-distracted_ story, but with the look Emma was giving him, he didn't think it would work. So Henry went with his gut. And the truth.


	7. Chapter 7

**The loft was warm, and dry, and about as comfortable as a loft could probably be. She should have been able to sleep. **

**She couldn't. Every time she moved the straw crackled comfortably underneath her, until the scent of it filled the air and soaked into her skin, until she couldn't sleep for the memories. It was a mistake, coming here. She'd know better than to sleep in a hayloft, ever again.**

**She'd read about heartache before in stories, star-crossed lovers and the like, but foolishly she'd always imagined it was a metaphor. She hadn't realized that the heart could actually ache, a physical pain eating away at you just under the ribs, keeping you awake in the still, silent hours.**

**Which is why she was awake to hear the hoofbeats, and shouting, and the pounding on doors. Loud, strong voices. "Open up! Open up and gather now in the name of the Queen!" **

**Belle eased off the straw, crawled to peer out one of the windows. Outside, the town was ablaze with torchlight, and full of soldiers in the Queen's black, hammering on doors, shoving sleepy villagers into a crowd, holding up posters of…**_**her**_**. How…how?**

**She heard one of the soldiers proclaiming, "a traitor and a criminal and a known consort of the Dark One," and she knew the how didn't matter. What mattered was getting away.**

**Belle eased back, into the dark of the loft, even as she heard the door to the mill open. An old woman's voice drifted up to her — the woman she'd spoken to this afternoon. "Are you still there, girl? Why don't you come into the house, my dear? It's such a cold night out and it can't be comfortable in this drafty old place."**

**The words were smooth and sweet as honey, but Belle had spent months with a man who made a game of twisting words, and years before that among courtiers who kept their positions by telling royalty what they thought they wanted to hear; she could hear the discord amid the chorus. There was a window to the back of the loft. She held her breath, but it didn't creak as she lifted the latch and swung it open. She levered herself out, as far as she could manage, until she was holding on to the edge. **

**She dropped.**

**And landed hard, and badly, twisting her ankle under her. Belle could hear the soldiers more clearly out here — hear a voice call out "A gold piece?**"

**And then a soldier call back, "Yes, in return for any knowledge that puts us on the girl's trail, and one hundred gold if that knowledge leads to her capture" — and Belle didn't stay to hear the rest. She pushed herself up.**

**The forest wasn't far off. Even with her injured ankle, she made it easily.**

* * *

It probably wasn't big of her, but the term _mental patient_ did tend to stir up certain connotations. Straight-jackets. People mumbling to themselves, swaying back and forth and — okay, Emma was willing to admit they probably weren't the most accurate images. It was probably based on one too many Hollywood stereotypes and little-to-no actual dealing with people who had mental problems.

But, still, she ordered Henry to wait in the car as they pulled up to the ramshackle cabin in the woods. Nothing major looked out of place — aside from the missing padlock, which she could spot from the car.

"The lady isn't dangerous, she's scared," Henry said.

"You'd be surprised how fast scared can get dangerous, kid," Emma tossed back, unbuckling her seatbelt. "Stay. In. The. Car." Henry stared at her, his dark eyes huge and stern behind his thick glasses, but he didn't move. She gave him a pointed look and swung herself out of the cruiser.

There were no lights on in the windows, and it was too dark to see if anybody was moving around outside. The place looked abandoned. Maybe it was; girl might've run off after Henry left —

— except Emma doubted it. There was something so _earnest_ about Henry. He was completely and totally sincere, in a way that only a 10-going-on-85 year old kid could be. He made you _want _to believe him, and that, Emma thought, might just stick with a crazy person. And that made her nervous. She jogged up to the door, eyeing the hinge where the missing padlock should be.

"It's on the table inside," Henry said from behind her. Emma didn't bother to turn. She wasn't really surprised. She didn't even bother with the _I thought I told you to stay in the car_, which was probably the obligatory parental response in this situation.

Emma shook her head sharply, really glad she hadn't said that. She wasn't a parent.

She debated knocking — not crazy about announcing their entrance, but not thrilled with the idea of surprising a nut job either — but decided against it, and just pushed the door open. She held a hand out for Henry to stay back, then snagged his jacket when he tried to duck under her arm. "Woah, not so fast, kid. You don't know — "

"It's me, Henry!" he called out. "I brought…a friend, and some stuff for your foot. And more Snickers."

There was the sound of scrabbling towards the back, past a door what was either a bedroom or a bath. Emma rushed towards it and pulled the door open just in time to see a pair of dirty feet kick once and disappear through a window. Emma almost gave into the impulse to climb through after her — but, yeah, there was no way her hips were going to fit through there — so she ducked back out, shouting at Henry to "Stay _here_!" as she raced outside after the girl, tossing an, "I mean it this time!" over her shoulder as she skidded out the door and ran around back.

The girl had a head start, but Emma had built a lifetime around chasing after people. And she had shoes on. Still, the girl didn't look back. She kept pushing forward, stumbling over roots and rocks, catching herself when she would've fallen, fleeing with a sheer desperation that yanked at Emma's gut. The desperate ones were always the worst. Emma pushed, and got close enough to snag the girl's sleeve. She had on a pair of damp scrubs and a rather dusty sweater. The girl jerked, twisting so frantically that her feet scraped out from under her and she landed, hard. Hard enough that the ancient yarn creaked free from Emma's fingers. The girl tried to push herself up, but she seemed to have some trouble — and anyway it didn't matter because Emma was there. It wasn't much of a struggle; Emma had more experience at this, and she was strong. And even if she wasn't she'd still have been stronger than this girl, who — now that Emma could get a good look at her, confirm for herself that it was Lacey French — seemed to barely weigh more than Henry. Even with the girl struggling, it was a simple thing to get her arms behind her back and clasp the handcuffs around her wrists.

But it took Emma a second to get the girl on her feet because she was staring at the scars. The ones around the girl's wrists. Dangling against them, the handcuffs looked small and delicate.

A knot formed in her stomach, and Dr. Hopper's voice popped into her head. _What it is, is potentially very illegal._

Emma shoved that back. Shoved everything away except the cold, hard reality of the moment — that this girl was sick, and needed help, and it was her job to make that happen. "Ok, on your feet," Emma said, and she got the girl there, too, no matter how much the girl kicked.

It took some time to get back to the cruiser. The girl fought the whole way. Emma was tempted to throw her over her shoulder — she could do it, what with the pull-ups every morning and the fact that the girl was barely a feather-weight. But Emma wasn't really prepared to do that. There was something…not right about the way the girl kept fighting, mindless of the rocks scraping her and the branches scratching. Something not right about the scars on her wrists, or that file. Something really, really _wrong_ about how quiet the girl was. For all that fighting, she didn't make a sound.

Henry was waiting by the car. He saw them, and set himself firmly in front of the back door of the cruiser. "Move it," Emma told him.

Henry crossed his arms. The girl jerked again, then doubled over and started heaving. Henry hurried forward, grabbing a fresh water bottle from his bag. He stared at Emma in horror when he saw the girl's arms behind her back. "You handcuffed her? Why did you handcuff her — she didn't do anything wrong!"

"She resisted arrest," Emma snapped. The look on the girl's face was making her gut churn, and she was so not in the mood for Henry's black-and-white righteous indignation.

"Because she's _scared_!" Henry hurried towards the girl, cracking open the water bottle — and then gaped up at Emma open-mouthed when she caught the back of his shirt and dragged him back. He dropped the water bottle and started yanking on Emma's arm as she eased the girl into the back of the cruiser, the water glugging out over their feet. "You can't do this — you can't — you're supposed to make things better!"

"No, I'm supposed to do my damn job," Emma told him, charging around the front of the car to the driver's seat.

"I never should've told you, you're just going to go to take her back," Henry shouted.

"I sure as hell am, kid," Emma fired back, snapping on her seatbelt. "You riding or walking?"

Henry clambered in, his face red. "But it's wrong! They hurt her — look at her wrists — they _hurt_ her and she's scared! You can't take her back!"

"It's not that simple. She's a patient of the hospital and they need to treat her. But if they did hurt her, then I'll deal with it. I'm not just going to hand her over and shut my eyes and forget about her — "

"Why not? You're _good_ at it," Henry snapped.

It wasn't supposed to hurt. She'd made the right choice — the mature, adult choice — to give him away. She'd been eighteen, she had no business trying to raise a child. Not when she didn't have a home, or a job, or any idea how she was going to pay the hospital bill, let alone support a kid. Not when she'd still basically been a kid herself. It was the one thing in her life that she didn't fuck up. He did not get to throw it back at her as if she'd done something wrong.

Emma gunned the engine. When she finally managed to unclench her jaw, she said, "I'll drop you off at school. You should be thinking about how to explain this all to your mother. I'm sure they've called her by now to find out where you were."

Henry crossed his arms and turned away from her, which was okay with Emma. She headed back into town, and didn't let herself glance back in the rearview mirror.

* * *

There was very little Archie could do with a non-existent file. Psychiatrist or no. He told himself it would be ridiculous to theorize on nothing, and knew that it was, and did his best to ignore the voice that said it wasn't nothing. He had never met, nor treated, Miss French himself, but he knew people. He knew Mayor Mills, and he knew, _knew_, that if she was involved, then something was wrong. She did not help. She did not care about people. All the caring she seemed capable of she gave to Henry, and that poor boy was so starved of affection that he had stopped caring about it himself.

But knowing...others was not enough to lay the foundation. As Sherlock Holmes had said, one could not build bricks without clay.

So Archie could've gone home. But he didn't. He didn't want to think about why, but if he did he would know that it was because of the way that Sheriff Swan had looked at him. She didn't look at him very much, no one did, but she had this morning and he hadn't liked it. She didn't trust him. And with good reason. It had been wrong to give her Henry's file, and more wrong still to let Mayor Mills bully him into reporting it as stolen. The Sheriff had asked him for help, and he owed it to her. Besides, he could not in good conscience leave it at _oh, well, empty file_. Something wasn't right.

So he spoke to the staff. The ones that had time and would speak to him. And eventually one of them pointed him to a door with a keypad. And he'd knocked and knocked and kept knocking, and made such a silly nuisance of himself — which he was very good at — that a janitor eventually came up and let him in.

There was a row of steps, and beyond that a desk, and beyond that a nurse. She stood as Archie came down. "Excuse me, sir, you're not supposed to — "

"What's your name, miss?" He tried to put a little Mr. Gold in his voice. The tone that said _I will not be disobeyed._

She raised an eyebrow, but it worked. "Peg. And you are…"

"In a hurry. I have been brought in to consult on the Cecelia French case. I am going to need to have a look at any and all paperwork you have regarding that patient, and I'm — "

"Does the Mayor know you're down here?"

Archie tried to peer at her sternly. He wasn't very good with sternness, so he wasn't entirely sure how it was coming out. "Would I be here if she didn't?"

The nurse peered back at him and evidently saw nothing to say _yes, he would_. Or perhaps she simply didn't think anyone would be anywhere that Mayor Mills didn't want them. She made a face, but she rolled her seat back and unlocked a file cabinet behind her desk. There weren't very many files in it. The one for Cecelia French was slightly larger than the one he'd received upstairs, but not by much. It had a copy of the admission form, and the rest was simply a log of times and amounts of medication administered. Wrong wrong _wrong_ — and he had to swallow back the wave of anger that tidaled through him. Had to remind himself that he didn't know anything, not for certain.

"I'll take a look at Miss French's room now," Archie said, biting back the _if you please_.

The nurse rose, a jangly ring of keys dangling from her hand. She led him down a bare concrete hallway that reminded him more of a fallout shelter than a medical institution. The nurse unlocked a door and stepped back.

"I don't know what you're supposed to do, it's just a room," the nurse said as Archie stood there and tried to take it in.

After a minute, he said, "Thank you." Then, "Please excuse me. I'll be right back."

The nurse shrugged and went back to her desk, as Archie left to call the sheriff.


	8. Chapter 8

Emma brought the girl back to the station. Her decision had absolutely nothing to do with Henry, she told herself. Or the way he'd looked at her. Or the fact that he'd only shouted what she was thinking.

But she didn't like the way this thing smelled, and Emma had learned pretty damn early to trust her nose. And her gut. And both were screaming at her, almost as loud as Henry.

Luckily the street was empty as she brought little Lacey French inside. Emma'd rather this didn't get back to Regina right away. Not until she had a chance to talk to the girl. If the girl could talk, that was. She hadn't said a word the whole trip. She hadn't fought at all either; just sat there, still and watching. It was unsettling, like there was a ghost in the back seat.

She did kick up a fuss, though, when she saw the jail cell, digging her feet in as best she could and Emma could hear her breath coming fast and frantic and shallow. Emma gently steered the girl past the cell, and plopped the in the seat by her desk. She debated handcuffing Lacey to the chair, but decided that she wasn't really worried about the girl making a run for it; between the two of them she'd already proved she was faster. So Emma settled for a stern, "Just sit there, okay? You try to make a break for it, I'm going to have to put you in the cell."

The girl didn't respond. Not much of a surprise there. She simply stared at Emma. Well, mostly at Emma. Those big blue eyes were a little blurry, but the girl seemed to be focusing on her, and she didn't look confused. Emma'd lay odds she could understand.

When she was satisfied that Lacey wasn't going to move, just watch, Emma got her a cup of tea and a donut — because as long as Ruby was deputy, there were always donuts in the station, and usually pretty damn amazing ones — and, taking another good, long look at the girl, stepped a little ways away to call Dr. Hopper. She made sure to go over to the front door, though, and lean against it, instead of ducking into the small kitchen for some privacy.

He picked up on the first ring. "Emma? I was just about to call you. I need to talk — "

"I need you to come down to the station."

"Of course." The immediate answer surprised her a little. He added cautiously, "Is everything all right?"

Emma glanced at the girl, who had scrunched up on the chair, knees tucked up to her chest, even as she ripped chunks off the donut and furtively shoved them in her mouth. "That's going to be a bit more than a yes-or-no answer. I'll explain when you get here. Can you come now? I kinda need you to come now."

"Of course."

"And Archie?" Emma jumped in before he hung up. "Don't tell anyone I asked. Just act nonchalant, ok? Think up some reason, you're smart — "

"Lunch? That sounds wonderful. As it happens, I'm starving. How about I pick up something and bring it by?"

"Thanks, Doc."

* * *

He arrived fifteen minutes later with a laden plastic bag that smelled of carbs and salt and grease. Emma, wedged in the opening of the door in case someone just happened to walk by and glance in, felt her stomach growl, and she glanced back at the clock.

Dr. Hopper smiled. "It really is lunchtime. Is something wrong?"

"What? No. Um…" Across the street, Leroy was hauling a couple boxes out of his shop, carafes of coffee wedged in his arms, too preoccupied by trying to juggle them into the rusted bed of his truck to pay them any attention. Further down, she thought she saw Mr. Gold locking the door to his shop, a heavy black tote in hand, but Emma figured he was far enough away to be safe, and anyway it looked like he was heading in the direction of the school. Maybe some of the preschool teachers needed to pawn their fingerpaints. "Okay, come on in."

She stepped back to let him in, and Dr. Hopper's confusion faded when he saw the girl in the chair. "Emma."

"I know. Don't say it."

He said it anyway. "You should have brought her to the hospital."

"I know."

He kept his voice low, just above a whisper — probably, Emma guessed, so as not to alarm the girl — but Emma's gut said Lacey could still hear them. That she was listening. She was too _still_. "She is a patient of the hospital. You are required by law to bring her back. To say nothing of the fact that she very likely requires medical treatment. Dr. Whale informed me that she overdosed — is that a cruller?"

"Her second one. Seriously, doc, look at her." Emma caught the look he was giving her and raked a hand through her hair. "I know, I _know_ — I promise, I'll arrest myself later. But right _now_," she said, "I am...concerned about what would happen if I returned her to the hospital. And I need you to tell me, as an official head doctor who, as I remind you, is _not_ treating her so you can talk to me about this, whether or not that concern is legitimate."

Dr. Hopper glanced at the girl, his expression torn.

"I chased her through the woods, Arch. I had to tackle her and drag her back to the squad car, and she still hasn't said a word. She's scared, I can smell it. I know what's legal, and I know what's right. And am asking you — help me figure out how to do both."

He didn't answer for a long moment, and then he sighed. It sounded as if it was almost pulled out of him. "She is frightened." Dr. Hopper turned to Emma and met her eyes. "And you should be concerned."

Emma expelled a hard breath. "Goddamit." Then: "What haven't you told me?"

He told her what he'd found. "I am not saying that all mental health institutions are — are shiny, happy places, but they are most definitely _not_ cinderblock holes in the basement. I am going to have to contact the Department of Mental Health and Addiction Services. Whoever had charge of that place, and of this girl, they are going to have to answer some very serious questions."

"What kind of questions?" Emma demanded, seeing the scars on the girl's wrists in the back of her mind. She couldn't think of any _questions_ that would ever be enough to make up for that.

"The kind that end with lawyers and judges."

"Good." And Emma asked, because it needed to be asked: "Regina?"

"She is the official emergency contact of record for Miss French."

Emma's mouth twisted bitterly. "I know."

"I do not think she can claim ignorance of her situation."

"She can try."

"But I do not think she can succeed." Dr. Hopper hesitated. "I'd like to speak to her."

Emma nodded, and waved a hand for him to go ahead.

He crossed over to the girl in that smooth, unhurried gate of his. Like he was out for a stroll on a rainy day. It should have looked ridiculous, but it didn't. Emma suspected it had something to do with the sense of calm that he seemed to exude. "My name is Archibald Hopper. I was wondering if I could talk to you for a bit. Would that be all right?"

Lacey watched Dr. Hopper as if she was studying his face, and then her eyes flicked over to the bag of food on the desk. "Are you hungry?" he asked. Emma could see the girl draw herself in, but Dr. Hopper continued as if he hadn't noticed. "It's only burger and fries, but there's plenty to share." He went to the bag and pulled out paper plates and napkins. "Emma, why don't you get us all something to drink? We can eat and have a talk, if that's all right?"

"Sure, Arch." Emma glanced at the girl. "Cokes okay?"

When Chatty Cathy didn't voice an opinion, Dr. Hopper said, "That should be fine. Thank you."

Emma ducked into the small alcove that passed for a kitchen and a breakroom in the station, and snagged a couple Cokes out of the fridge.

And felt the hair lift on the back of her neck. Emma was bolting back to the office before she heard it. The _clickclickclick_ of Regina's heels on the linoleum.

And there she was, striding in as if she owned the place, with a hospital attendant by her side. "Well, well, well. Sheriff Swan, this is a surprise."

Emma strode over, stepping between the Mayor and the girl in the chair who'd gone so damn still. "I don't remember calling you."

Regina gave her a pointed, poisonous little smile. "You didn't. Fortunately there are others here in town who are aware of the situation and know their civic duty." She leaned on one towering heel to peer around Emma's shoulder. "I hope you have enjoyed your little outing, because it is the last — "

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Regina — _what_ _the hell_ — " Whatever Emma was prepared to do, and that likely included hauling Regina up by that ridiculous $700 trenchcoat she was wearing and shoving her out the door, she didn't get the chance. Because the girl _threw_ herself at Regina, shoving Emma into the hospital aide, and knocking Regina off her feet. Regina tumbled backwards, crashing to the floor, her perfect polish ruffled for once as she struggled against the girl. Lacey French could not have weighed more than ten pounds, soaking wet, but that was still quite a damn lot when it was clawing at your face and trying to rip the hair out of your head. It took Emma a split-second — and the hospital aide even longer; he just stood there, stunned — but she got Lacey around the waist and hauled her off of Regina. It was surprising, the fact that Emma actually had to fight against her, to hold her still.

"How — how _dare _you?!" Regina clawed a finger through her hair, her surprise already simmering into anger as she glared up at the girl. "I demand that you take her away at once and lock her away!"

"Are you out of your mind?" The seriousness, the sheer ballsy _command _in Regina's tone had Emma staring at her, and that had her loosening her grip enough that the girl managed to jerk away and ran, straight past the still staring hospital aide. Straight out the door. It gaped open after her.

"Christ, Archie, check that she's all right," Emma ordered, jabbing a thumb at Regina as she hopped over Regina, ignoring her scream of "Sheriff Swan!", and ran after the girl.

* * *

**Belle didn't stop moving until the sun was well and truly up. Until she was so far gone from the village she wouldn't have been able to find her way back even if she wanted to. But she stopped now, air raking against her lung with every breath, pain shooting up her ankle like lightning each time she tried to put weight on it.**

**She couldn't hear the Queen's soldiers. For now. Her father had never had any dealings with the Queen; their kingdom was far too small to attract her notice. But they had heard enough of her to be grateful for it. Belle had heard enough to know of her persistence. And one hundred gold pieces was no small sum.**

**How did the Queen know she was gone? How did she know already?**

**_Never mind that. _The how didn't matter, not now. What mattered was Belle kept moving, because the soldiers wouldn't stop looking for her, not ever. Not when they would have to answer to the Queen for it if they came back empty-handed. What mattered was thinking up a plan. She could keep running, as far and as fast as she could, and hope that would be enough. Or she could find a place to hide. Someplace safe.**

**If there was somewhere safe. The Queen was powerful, and reason said that the only safe place would be with someone more powerful. And he had sent her away.**

**So for now, Belle kept moving.**

* * *

Her breath burnt in her chest. Her lungs were screaming, her leg muscles cramping painfully as she pushed. Away from the blonde woman and the beige man. Away from the Woman. _Keep moving. Don't stop, and don't look back._

_Don't look back._

She should've remembered that. Because she did, and in doing so crashed into someone. She tried to push past them, but then the scent drifted over her, warm and dry and sweet, and she looked up and saw —

_You._

A man. A thin man. With a cane. He stared at her. His eyes. His hands. The thin, strong fingers tightened on her, on her shoulders. Squeezing.

_You. There you are. _

The thought resounded through her like the gong of a bell. It stunned her. It stopped her.

_I know you._

She wasn't sure where it came from. The recognition. The wave of pleasure that was so strong it was nearly pain, and the shock of it had her stumbling back.

There was a shout.

There was a car.

She felt the air rushing past as she spun through the air. Saw the ground racing towards her. In a very distant way, she heard the thud as she landed.

Her mind lingered long enough to notice the wet pavement against her cheek, and the cane dropping to the ground, and the pair of polished shoes staggering towards her. She had...she had to keep moving. The Queen..**.the Queen was right there, the Queen was coming for her… **She had to _keep moving_...

But couldn't. Couldn't run, couldn't fight. She didn't have anything left to run with. She was very tired. She closed her eyes.

* * *

**AN: I'm sorry to leave it on a cliffhanger, but I do intend to continue with SoS. I've been approaching this as if it were episodes of the show, so I'll start posting Episode 2 as soon as I have it finished and polished. Thanks to everyone for the follows and the kind reviews!**


	9. Chapter 9

The door to Leroy's truck was open like a shot, but the man himself was shaking so hard that he forgot to unbuckle his seat belt. He fumbled with it frantically as he tried to climb out, shouting. "I didn't see her! Holy shit — holy _shit _— is she _alive_? Please tell me she's alive! I didn't see her!"

Gold ignored him, pressing his fingers to Belle's throat to check her pulse. But his hands were shaking badly, so he could only feel how cold her skin was. So cold, and so, so pale. He closed his eyes for a moment. Only for a moment. He couldn't allow himself to feel — not relief, not surprise, not anything. Not yet.

"Call for an ambulance," he told Leroy.

"Oh shit, oh shit shit _shit_…" But Leroy managed to snap off his seat belt and lurched forward onto the pavement. He dug in his pockets for his cell.

"I've got it." Gold heard the good Sheriff Swan's voice behind him, heard the purposeful squelch of her sneakers as she strode towards them. She crouched down next to Gold, her radio already hissing. "This is Emma Swan with the SPD. We need an ambulance on Main, right in front of the police department — "

Gold ran his eyes over Belle. Taking in each injury. Filing it away. Her head was bleeding, but not badly. He doubted it would require any stitches. Some scratches on her arms, hands, nothing serious. But she was very cold. He jerked his coat off, ignoring the pain radiating up his bad leg, and tucked it around her. He couldn't tell about her spine, and he didn't dare move her, but her right leg was bent at an unnatural angle. Gold took her hand and chafed it. Later, he would hate that it was all he could do. Later, much later, he would allow himself to acknowledge it. How it felt. The weight of it. Her hand in his, real and solid.

"Ambulance is on their way," Emma said, and Gold only realized that Dr. Hopper was there when she added, "Don't suppose you can help us out here, doc?"

"I attend the hospital's First Aid and CPR sessions regularly," Dr. Hopper replied, sounding so calm and composed that Gold glanced up at the man. Allowed himself to feel a measure of surprise and impressed. "Her breathing is steady, as is her pulse," Dr. Hopper continued, checking both in a smooth and efficient manner. "I can't say anything about internal injuries, but I'm sure Dr. Whale will be there once she gets to the hospital."

Gold heard himself say, "Her leg is broken." If Leroy was lucky, it would be a clean break.

"Um, yes." Dr. Hopper's eyes flickered over to him for an instant. "Best to let the paramedics deal with that. When they get here."

"Sheriff! Sheriff Swan, I demand that you arrest — " The voice, strident, demanding, regal, rang out from behind them, then abruptly cut off.

Gold looked over.

The Mayor stood there, on the curb, the door to the police station swinging shut behind her, clutching one arm to her chest. Her hair was, for once, less than perfect. Gold knew what she saw. The truck. The sheriff and the cricket, crouched down, fussing. Belle. Him.

The Mayor eyes narrowed, but she tossed back her head, and raised an eyebrow, like a challenge. "That poor girl. I do hope someone has called for help."

"I don't have time for this, Regina," the sheriff tossed off. In the distance, there were sirens.

The Mayor lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "I do hope she doesn't die…" And then blinked in surprise when the sheriff shot to her feet and rounded on her. "Regina, for once in your life _shut the fuck up!_"

The Mayor gaped at the sheriff, halfway between shock and fury, as if the blonde woman had slapped her. "How — how — _dare you _— "

"I don't have time to deal with you now," Emma cut her off. "Go stir your cauldron or paint your nails or whatever the hell it is you do all day, but _go away._"

"_You_ don't have time — " But the good Sheriff Swan had turned her back on the Mayor as the ambulance screeched to a halt a few feet away. The Mayor drew herself up, and slowly pulled her gaze back to Gold.

He turned back to Belle. The paramedics had already secured her injured leg and eased her onto a stretcher. They hoisted her into the back of the ambulance, and no one tried to stop him as he climbed in after. Or, if they did, he didn't hear them.

He promised himself, he would feel everything later.

Particularly the anger.


	10. Chapter 10

The first time someone spoke to him, it was a nurse.

Gold was not certain how long he had been there, sitting in that hard wooden chair, nor any idea what time it was. It was gray outside the window, and cloudy. The nurses had, for the most part, ignored him as they came and went. Dr. Whale had come in once, perhaps twice, and he had felt the man glance over as he strode past, but his focus was on the patient in front of him, and on putting together the broken bits of her. There was talk of a concussion, and of fractured ribs. Tests were ordered. Gold thought the doctor's voice sounded confident, untroubled, and he tried to be comforted by that. Whale finished with Belle's chart and strode out again, not giving Gold a second glance.

Gold told himself that he must remember to be grateful.

He did not leave. He sat, in a chair, in the corner, even as footsteps, voices, came and went. Then there were long periods of silence, hideous, endless silences that dragged on and _on_, when the only thing that drew him through one awful moment into the next was the rise and fall of Belle's chest.

_Alive_.

Eventually a nurse did come, clearly egged on by the others, fiddling nervously with an engagement ring. "Um, excuse me, um, Mr. Gold? We have, um, a waiting area? Wouldn't you…wouldn't you be more comfortable waiting there?"

"No," Gold said. He did not look at her.

She went away.

Dr. Hopper came. The sky outside the window was darker, the steely gray edging towards black. The cricket stopped in the doorway and fussed a bit with his umbrella when he saw Gold. "I, um…the nurses said you were here."

Gold did not reply. Dr. Hopper went to Belle's bedside, sighing as he looked down at her. "I understand Dr. Whale expects her to make a full recovery. Physically, at least," he added in a low tone.

Gold felt his voice, rising up from what felt like a long way away, and heard himself ask, "What do you mean by that?"

Dr. Hopper cleared his throat and fussed with his umbrella for a moment. "I mean that physically she will be fine."

Gold regarded the fussy little man, long enough to make the good doctor start playing with his umbrella again, and then returned his attention to the pale, still form in the bed. So still. So pale. If it wasn't for the tangled spill of her dark hair against the pillow, she would have faded into the sheets entirely. _She would be fine. She was alive, and she would be fine. _"Good."

"What's good?" Emma Swan strode into the room and headed straight for the bed, with nary a pause as she tossed her hair over her shoulder to give him one of her raised-eyebrow-_I-don't-know-what-you're-up-to-but-I'll-figure-it-out _looks. "Still here?"

Gold took a long, slow look around the room. Dr. Hopper...was not there anymore. Gold blinked. The air felt as if it was made of molasses, each second trailing out like sap. "Dr. Hopper was just here. A little while ago," he added carefully. Outside the window, the sky had gone truly dark, and the streetlights had come on. "He wished to make sure that Miss French was…well."

The sheriff looked down at Belle, her eyes narrowing even as she sighed. "Is she?"

"You tell me."

Sheriff Swan strolled away to lean against the wall, facing him. "You tell me why I should. I thought you never met a Cecelia French in your life."

"We have yet to be formally introduced," Gold said.

"Seems like an awful long time to sit here for a girl you don't know."

He wondered, dimly, how long it had been, but he couldn't really care. "Would you accept simple human concern for a young woman who was grievously injured...right in front of me?"

The sheriff glanced at the bed, and her expression softened. "No." She turned back to him. "Not for eight hours."

"Because I asked," Gold said. His gaze flickered back to the girl on the hospital bed. Still there. Still there and _real_ and _alive._ "Because I…care to ask," he said brokenly, and knew he gave too much away in the sheer, desperate rasp of his voice.

The Queen would have seized on it. She would have laughed and gloated and used that moment of weakness to sink her claws in deep. But the good Emma Swan said, simply, "Whale said she'd be okay. Bumps, bruises — broken leg," she added, nodding to the fresh cast on Belle's leg. "But, physically, she'll be okay. Hobble around on crutches for a few weeks. Don't know if that little stunt she pulled is going to mess her up, but if she managed to run around in the woods for as long as she did — "

"Stunt?" Gold asked.

"Yeah. She…" The sheriff tilted her head, examining him. Weighing. Measuring. Deciding. "She OD'd on her meds. Saved 'em up and knocked 'em back. On purpose, Whale thinks. To, uh, get out."

"'Get out.'" Gold said.

"Yeah." He had to give the good sheriff this: she met his eye and she did not look away. Not many did. Her mother and father for one. And…

_Alive_. She was alive, here and alive.

"Will you tell me what was done to her?" he asked.

"I don't know," Emma said.

"But you have rather a good idea."

"But I don't _know_," Emma said. And he was — would be — pleased to see that oh so _determined _look come into her eye. "But I'm gonna find out."

As would he. "I owe you a very great debt."

The sheriff crossed her arms over her chest. "Here I thought I owed you the favor."

"You do."

She rolled her eyes at that, and pushed off from the wall. "Well, while you're figuring out exactly how to pay me back, could you tell me where Mr. French is? I need to speak with him."

As did he. "At his shop, or his home, I presume. Or, if you are not able to locate him at either, I would suggest trying the nearest drinking establishment."

"He's not here?" Emma asked flatly.

"I have not seen Mr. French today."

"Do you know if anyone even called him? His daughter's in the hos — " She stopped abruptly, which made him look away from the bed, just long enough to regard her. There was a tight, thoughtful look on her face. "His daughter is in the hospital," she finished.

"My dear sheriff," Gold said, looking back at Belle, "I neither know, nor care."

"Christ, what the hell is going on in this town?" She gave him a look, and planted her hands on her hips. "You plan on staying here all night?" Gold didn't answer her. "Look, the cafeteria's one floor down. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. A sandwich. I promise she'll be here when you get back."

"No." But he did add, with rather less difficulty than he expected, "Thank you, sheriff."

Emma was watching him closely. "There's going to come a point when you're going to have to tell me what's going on."

"Perhaps." First, though, there would need to come the point when the good sheriff was willing to believe it. "But not today."

She snorted and, glancing at the girl in the bed once again, strode back out of the room. He glimpsed her talking to a nurse, and then charging off down a hallway. Towards the doctor's waiting room, he believed.

Some time later, a nurse came in with a tray of food. Gold looked up at her as she padded in, and she almost dropped it. She set it on the table near him, not the bedside one, and squeaked something about the sheriff before hurrying out.

The tray held a wilting sandwich, a brownie that looked as if had been made of concrete, and a cup of weak tea. He drank the tea.

* * *

The hall outside of Belle's door had grown empty, and very quiet, by the time Dr. Whale returned. He bypassed the bed and came to stand directly in front of Gold. "Right. This is me officially kicking you out. Visiting hours are over — " he went on, when Gold would have opened his mouth to speak, "— they've been over for hours, as a matter of fact, but the rest of the staff is too scared of you to say anything, and I've been too damn busy, so they let it go up til this point. But now you need to leave."

"Concussion?" Gold asked.

"That's a discussion for me to have with Miss French, when she wakes up, or with her immediate family if comes to that. You certainly aren't the former, and I don't recall exactly how you fall into the latter?" Dr. Whale gave him an exhausted, humorless smile.

"I believe you mentioned the possibility of fractured ribs."

"Get out."

Gold stood. Slowly, as his leg protested violently at having to stand after sitting for so long. "I would like to request," he began, "that you not allow Mayor Mills to visit…Miss French."

"That's not up to you," Dr. Whale said, flipping briskly through Belle's chart. "It's up to me, and I'm not exactly in the mood to let her have any visitors until I feel good and damn ready. But Regina is listed as Miss French's emergency contact, and I have no doubt she'll try to use that to continue her reign of goddamn terror."

"I trust you will do what you can. It sounds as though I have missed out on quite the story." Self-control made his voice very nearly calm. "It appears, doctor," Gold continued, easing his way towards the door, "that this poor girl was not treated very well under your care."

"If she was under my care, I'd like to think it wouldn't have come to this." And Whale turned his back on Gold to examine Belle's IV.

Gold left the long way, via the accounting office, where it was a simple matter to terrify the office manager into agreeing to send Belle's medical bills to his office.

Then he went home.


	11. Chapter 11

**It had been a long trip. Well, a week. Closer to two, actually. He supposed two weeks wasn't **_**that **_**long in the scheme of things, but it had **_**felt **_**long, which in and of itself was curious. His little expeditions never felt **_**long**_ **before, and certainly not…tedious. Yes, he supposed 'tedious' was the right word, though he would never have thought it. He had always enjoyed these little outings; he **_**did **_**enjoy them. People very often came to him — whatever they thought or said of him, they still came — but often it was expedient to venture out to them, and how he **_**loved **_**to be there, to see it. To pull the strings of the world and watch them dance.**

**Still, he could not deny that this time it had felt, well, **_**tedious**_**. All those people, scurrying around like ants. So consumed by things that did not matter at all. Betrayal. Revenge. Fear. Anger. **_**Love. **_**He had tasted them all, and he was done. It was amusing really. And it was baffling. No one seemed to understand that what really mattered was **_**power**_**. No one except the Queen. Which, he supposed, was why he respected her.**

**It was important, he believed, to respect one's enemies. And what they could do.**

**Still… Still, perhaps he would wait a bit before answering another summons. Really, he was growing **_**tired**_ **of all this running around. All those letters, the little pleas of **_**help**_ _**me help me**_**, piling up, until there weren't enough hours in the day, not even if he froze time — which he had to do, once or twice — and the headaches afterwards were hardly worth the effort. Much like the letter her good and royal father had written when he sent for him.**

**The memory of it **_**still **_**made Rumplestiltskin grind his teeth. That insufferable prick. **_**Sent**_ **for him, like a servant. As if the Dark One's magic was at his beck and call, to do with as he pleased. Well, he had shown that fat foolish bastard. He had taken what was most dear to him, let **_**her **_**be the servant. Let her come when he called. It was wonderfully funny. When you thought about it. Which he did.**

**Not often.**

**Some of the time.**

**The problem was, you see, that the silly girl simply didn't understand **_**humor**_**. Half of the joke in getting a darling, pampered little princess to fetch and carry and scrub his floors was that she was supposed to **_**whine **_**about it. Fuss about breaking her nails and ruining her dress. Blubber a bit. **_**Moan **_— **no. Not moan. Complain. Yes, 'complain' was better.**

**Did she?**

**No, she did **_**not**_**, the irrational girl.**

**She simply…simply…**_**went about her chores**_**. Dusting and polishing and **_**cooking **_**(heaven help him, though she was getting better at that). She'd **_**ruined**_ **that magnificent golden gown of hers mopping the floors and washing the dishes and hauling laundry out to the line, and she had yet to say a word about it. He was **_**prepared **_**for when she asked him for another dress. He had **_**been prepared**_**, since the first week, having judged a week an adequate time for even the most spoiled princess to realize her heavy satin finery would not do for drudgery. He had planned to give her something plain and coarse and very maid-like, to make a point that her life as a petted princess and dearest daughter was now over. He'd even practiced the **_**look **_**he would give her, once or twice. A nice mix of amusement and condescension. But he couldn't bloody amusingly condescend when she simply…did her work. Poured the tea. Made the beds. Beat the damn **_**carpets**_**. And not once was there an **_**I never learnt how **_**or **_**princesses are not expected to know that **_**or **_**can't you simply have magic do this?**_ **He was **_**ready **_**for those, he had **_**practiced **_— **he had quite a good **_**well, you will simply have to learn now, **_**but his best was the **_**of course I can have magic do it. **_**Because that was part of the joke, wasn't it? He could have had magic do it **_**all**_**, and he made **_**her **_**do it. He'd ransomed her at the price of her village, stolen her away from her family, left her kingdom without an heir and forced her into a life of endless and exhausting toil simply because he **_**could**_**. That was what made it so **_**funny**_**. He didn't really need her at all.**

**Not really.**

**Well…yes, so she was…useful. He would admit to that, at least. He had ordered her to help sort all the requests (he knew full well she read everything else in the castle), and she was thorough and organized, and Rumplestiltskin discovered it helped him decide which to choose and which to toss into the fireplace. She would make that amusing little face, and that little line would appear between her brows, and her eyes would go hard as sapphire. This last time she had wadded up the request and tried to throw it into the fire. But he had said, **_**fair is fair, **_**and winked it out of her hands.**

**She had said, **_**nothing you do is fair.**_

**And he had said, **_**I am the fairest of them all, dearie. Everyone knows the rules. If you want to play, then you must pay. Your father knew that when he wrote to me.**_

**Really, it amazed him how many people failed to fully comprehend that. How many would listen to his terms and strike the deal, and then rail and cry and act completely **_**shocked**_ **when it was time to pay the piper. It was getting…**

**Tedious.**

**A rest was what he needed. A little quiet time at home (not that the castle was quiet, exactly, with that girl gallumping about the place and disturbing his things in the name of cleanliness and **_**talking **_**to herself). He really should devote more time to researching the arcane arts; he had been focusing his energies on dark magic, and it would never do for the great and terrible Dark One to pigeonhole himself. He hoped Belle had kept the place tidy. He was in no mood to return to a dusty, cluttered castle…as, well as he used to. (Simply because he **_**could **_**use magic to clean the place didn't mean he remembered to.) (He was a busy and important person and he had many more important things to attend to than washing dishes.) If she had let the place go, there would be…well, a reckoning. Surely.**

**Rumplestiltskin wondered how long she would bide her time before trying to escape — because that was surely what she was doing. He knew that was what all this was — all this promptness and kindness and…and all the other -**_**nesses**_**. Biding her time, acting the meek miss so he would not suspect her, and the moment she thought she was safe — **_**gone**_**. Well, he **_**did **_**suspect her. A deal was a deal, but he knew full well that no one stayed at the Dark Castle. Not voluntarily. If he was fair and honest (which he was, of occasion, though only in private), he would admit that most of them probably did not like being kept in the dungeon, in chains. But the end was the same. **_**Everyone **_**tried to escape. And no one succeeded.**

**Not even him.**

**Rumplestiltskin shook his head. No, no, that was ridiculous. Of course he never wished to escape. There was nothing to escape to. There was nothing to escape **_**from**_**, he told himself. He had power — real **_**power **_— **more power than anyone else in the world. Really, he needed a nice long rest if these were the sort of ridiculous thoughts that popped into your head when you were overtired.**

**He saw the glint of the towers amid the mountains. And ignored the warm pull in his chest. Especially the reckless, irrational thought that popped into his head, unbidden and unwanted: **_**home**_**.**

* * *

Gold stood outside for a long while, staring at his front door, keys in his hand. He had to go inside. He had to eat, and sleep. To keep his strength. But first, he had to go inside.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside. He was keenly aware of the rap of his cane against the polished wooden floors, of the click of his shoes. Of the way the sound echoed throughout the room, and how empty it made it feel. They were sounds that made him acutely, brutally aware of how empty the house was. He had never thought about the sounds before. Well, not much. He had grown used to them, the lonely simple sounds of one person moving about. After all, there had only been a very brief time when he would come back and…someone would be there.

He didn't allow himself to think about it. He tried not to think about it. He wasn't ready to think, to feel, to lose this fog that kept him back from the edge, where he teetered on the brink of something truly terrible. There was a glass bowl on the table by the door where he put his keys every day. There was the brass coat tree to hang his coat and scarf. He should put his keys in the bowl. Hear them clink against the glass. He should hang up his coat on the arms of the tree and go down the dark hall to the kitchen and have something to eat. He needed to keep up his strength. He needed to _not _think. Not about tomorrow, not about what he would do when he could think. Not about all of the days, the years that Belle had been here. _Here_ and _alive_. Twenty-eight years, and he hadn't known.

But he didn't allow himself to think about that. To think about her would be to be devastated by relief. By joy. Belle. Alive. After all these years, after all this time, _alive_.

Gold stared at the glass bowl, but his hand wouldn't reach out and drop the keys.

Abruptly he turned and slammed out of the house, not able to listen to the clink of the keys against glass, not able to _think _about that sound echoing throughout his home, through the emptiness and the silence until he would not be able to ignore either.

He went to his shop. He told himself that he would spin. He would watch the wheel and listen to the clacks of the wood, and forget. At the very least he would be able to not think. He would do that.

But he wasn't thinking as he opened the shop door — hard. So hard that the wood rattled in its hinges and the glass burst apart. Something in him burst with it, and he felt the cane in his hands and he gave in to the need he hadn't been thinking about, the terrible need to see something shatter and break apart.

* * *

Eventually someone called the sheriff. Gold realized this when he heard the crunch of footsteps over the broken glass. He was on the floor, not entirely sure how long he had been sitting there, half-leaning against the remnants of a broken and tortured display case, and exhaustion finally, blessedly numbing him.

Sheriff Swan cast one long look over the ruin of his store. She sighed. "Jesus Christ."

"I'm afraid we're not open," Gold managed. There was a stitch in his side, and as he pulled in air it scraped like sandpaper against his lungs.

The good sheriff cocked an eyebrow at this. "Got a noise complaint. Said they heard shouting, sounds of stuff breaking, and — and this is a quote — 'prolific obscenities.'"

He forced himself to give her a thin smile. "Spring cleaning. I'm afraid I've never been fond of it."

She regarded him for a long moment, but when she finally spoke all she said was, "Give you a lift to the hospital?"

And he rasped, before he could stop himself, "She's awake?"

"No," the sheriff said after a moment, her face cautiously blank. "Your hands."

Gold looked down. His hands were bleeding. There was quite a bit of glass about, and he had cut his hands up rather badly. But not, he decided, too badly. "No. Thank you."

The sheriff sighed, and muttered _Jesus_ again. To which Gold offered a polite smile and said, "However, I do appreciate your concern."

She watched him for a minute before answering. "You know," she began slowly, "I really, _really _hate not knowing what's going on. I hate it so much that I make it a point to find out. One way or another, however long it takes," she said, giving him a smile that was all flash and sharp edges and no soul. "You could call it a personal mission — or a quest."

He sincerely hoped so. "Thank you, sheriff," Gold said, rising. "I apologize about the noise."


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning, his mother cooked breakfast. She liked to do that sometimes, usually when she had been out late the night before (which she hadn't been doing so much since Sheriff Graham died), or if she'd been spending a lot of time at the office. _Family Time_, she called it. Henry called them Victory Breakfasts, because that's what they actually were. Whenever his mother had beaten someone, bullied them into doing what she told them or frightened them into not speaking up. Whenever she was _happy_, she made breakfast.

Usually it was pancakes. Once or twice she'd tried French toast, and there had been the Great Frittata Experiment of last May, but today it was pancakes. They were apple, her specialty, and gluten-free and vegan, which was supposed to make them healthy, which meant you weren't supposed to care how they tasted. His mother set a laden, steaming plate in front of him, and Henry carefully dissected them, removing every slice of apple and setting it in a small pile on the side of his plate.

His mother gave his plate a pointed look. "We're playing that game again, are we?"

"It isn't a game," Henry said, and began to cut his pancakes into small, equally-sized squares.

"You love apples," she told him.

"You love apples," Henry told her. "I object to apples on moral grounds." And she knew that. They'd had this conversation several times.

His mother gave him a _look_. He knew that look. It was the _I am right, and you are wrong, but I'm choosing not to make an argument out of this because we are having pleasant Family Time _look_._ It was the look that said he'd won, and that he would pay for it later. For now, she scooped the apples off of his plate and onto hers, and poured herself a cup of coffee.

Henry concentrated on cutting up his pancakes. The pieces had to be equally-sized, but he also had to end up with a number of pieces that was either divisible by either three or four, which was the number of pieces he could get on his fork to make a reasonably-sized bite. When he was younger, it had to be divisible by three only, but Dr. Hopper had talked to him about trying to be a little more flexible.

Seventy-two. Perfect. That meant twenty-four bites. Henry carefully speared three pieces onto his fork, and sampled. If he ever opened a bakery when he was grown up, he was going to use butter in _everything_ and never, ever leave out the gluten. "May I ask a question?"

"You may." She poured the barest, smallest drop of skim milk into her coffee and stirred.

"When you get sick and you have to go to the hospital, do they tie you down?"

"What?"

"On your wrists. Do they tie you down? So it'd leave marks."

His mother set the spoon down. "Why are you asking me this?"

The lie came easy. He'd had a lot of practice. "Ryan was telling me about this movie his brother let him watch. About a hospital. And when people went there they got tied down and scary stuff happened to them."

"Was this a horror movie?" His mother had strong opinions about horror movies.

Henry shrugged.

His mother gave him an arch look as she started to cut into her pancakes, making sure to include a lot of apples. "I think it sounds a little inappropriate for a ten-year-old boy. I think I should have a talk with Ryan's parents."

Ryan was going to pound him. "But do they? At real hospitals?"

"No, of course not," his mom said, patting his hand. "Not unless you need it."

She made it sound so comforting. She was good at making things sound comforting; Henry wondered if she practiced it, like he did with lying. "Who needs it?"

She took a second before answering. Henry could almost see her putting the answer together in her head. "Sometimes, when people are very sick, or they're seeing or hearing things that aren't there, they try to hurt people, or themselves. In those cases, yes, patients may need to be restrained for their own good."

_For their own good._ His mother used that one a lot. "No," Henry said. "That's not true. That's something you say when you want to do things to people that they don't want."

"Henry — "

"You don't get to decide what's good for other people."

"In an ideal world, yes, that's so. But sometimes people are too sick, or they can't think right, and then other people — "

"_No_." It was very nearly a shout, and Henry could feel himself shaking with anger. He could feel it, red hot and glowing underneath his skin. "That's just an excuse. It's their life, not yours, and it's wrong, and you know it's wrong. And you do it anyway."

His mother set her fork down and sat back in her chair. "I think this isn't about a horror movie. I think someone overheard something about that patient who escaped from the hospital."

Henry didn't say anything. He thought it was probably the best option.

"I don't know what someone might have overheard, but that patient is sick, and she is dangerous. She tried to hurt me, when I wanted to take her back to the hospital," his mother said, holding out her right hand. It was wrapped up in an Ace bandage. "She needs to be confined — "

"For her own good," Henry said.

"Yes." His mother smiled at him, and speared an apple slice with her fork.

Henry thought about how the lady had looked when he first saw her, sitting in the river. Scared. _Terrified_. The tears streaming down her face. He had wanted to help, but instead he messed up and now the lady was back at the hospital and his mother was smiling and made him pancakes. Henry hated his mother then. You weren't supposed to hate people when you were just a kid, because you didn't know anything. You were supposed to wait until you were grown up and had experience and knew what people were like before you could hate them. But Henry knew his mother, and he hated her.

And he was here for _eight more years_. Whatever happened with the curse and with Emma, his mother had legally adopted him, and this wasn't a magical fairy tale world where you could run off and find a nice woodcutter to live with. Here the police found you and brought you back. There were laws here, about adoption and custody and everything; Henry had Googled them. There were laws here about everything.

He didn't like thinking about that. It always made his stomach twist up and his heart start pounding and a horrible, stinging, _powerless_ feeling rise up in the back of his throat until he thought he was going to vomit. But his mother was staring at him — smiling at him — and he was powerless. He knew it. And his mother knew it.

He ate his pancakes.

* * *

She woke, slowly, to sunshine. It was bright and warm, streaming through the blinds on the wide window across from her.

_The window_.

She pushed herself up, tried to push past the muzzy, thick-headedness. She was _out_ — she had gotten _out_. Her one leg felt heavy, and awkward, and it took a while, staring at the big white cast wrapped around it, to work her way backwards through her numb, tired mind until she remembered the car. Truck. The impact.

She looked around at the room, twice as big as what she'd had, and there was a window and a door and the door was standing open… And she was lying on a real bed, with a mattress and pillows and a blanket.

Out. She was _out_.

But — no. She frowned. The smell. The smell was still the same, and the sound of sneakers squeaking against the tile floor. And through the open door she saw doctors and nurses strolling through the hallways.

She shifted, tried to push herself up further, straining to use arms that seemed to have forgotten how to work and a body that seemed to be, simply, drained, and had to stop, gasping, at the tight vice of pain squeezing her chest. She could handle it, **she'd been in pain before**…

The thought was so strange it stopped her. She'd… she'd been in pain. At some point. She couldn't…remember when, but she _knew _there had been pain like this…**weight on her chest, gasping for breath, chains pulling at her wrists and ankles**…

"Oh, no you don't." A tall blonde man in a long white coat strode in, crossing straight to her bed. "We understand, all right? Consider the message received. You don't want to be here. Unfortunately, you're stuck here for the time being, at least until we're satisfied that you're stable and you're not going to do anything ridiculous like OD'ing on your meds again, got it?"

She didn't say anything. He looked her over and said, "I mean it — you try and run out of here again, which would be really stupid and dangerous in your condition, and I'll have to have you restrained. I don't want that, and I'm going to go out on a limb here and you don't want that, so let's not do anything that will make the really tired doctor have to do that. Okay?"

She wanted to ask what was going on, but she didn't. That would have meant breaking her silence, and for so long, so so long, her silences were her only weapon. Instead she pushed herself up, all the way, past the tiredness, hissing her way through the pain, trying to get her legs over the side of the bed, but the cast was heavy and awkward. And the man was there, pushing her back. She tried to push away — to scrape and bite and free herself — but she had no strength left, and the man called out and nurses rushed in. They held her down, cooing ridiculous things like _there, there _and _calm down _and _it will be all right. _ The man stepped away, and stepped back, holding a syringe.

She didn't speak then, but she did scream. Or it would have been a scream, but she hadn't used her voice in so long, so it was simply sound, rough and raw and frantic and wild, sheer terror made sound. She fought as hard as she could, which wasn't very hard, and because she couldn't fight she screamed.

She tried to reach up, to get out, to get away, but there were hands, holding her, pinning her, in spite of the fight, the screams.

The Woman would come. She would come, and she would stand there, smiling down at her, eyes alight with triumph. They would send her back. She knew they would send her back, and the rage and terror twisted up in her chest and escaped as screams. Oh god, not back there, oh, please _please_ _god_ not back there, she would rather die, please just let her _die…_

She felt, vaguely, beyond the pain, the short sharp stab of a needle. The hands held her fast until the drugs drifted through her and held her down.


	13. Chapter 13

Archie had just hung up the phone, and was making a note in his appointment book when Dr. Whale burst in, face flushed and cursing...really very creatively. It caught Archie by surprise, but only for a moment; all things considered, it wasn't the most dramatic entrance his office had ever seen. So he waited until it seemed that Dr. Whale was losing steam, and then set down his pen and went to the mini-fridge he kept in the corner of his office and took out a bottle of water. He held it out, and Dr. Whale took it, yanking angrily at his tie before he cracked the bottle open and drank deeply. "Thanks."

"Perhaps you should sit down," Archie suggested. Presumably, there was only so red a person could get before passing out.

Dr. Whale shook his head, one sharp jerk, breathed in and out, hard. "No. Thanks. I'll stand, I'm used to standing. I'm used to running around all day." He paused, holding up a hand as he closed his eyes for a moment. "I don't know what the _hell_ has been going on in my hospital, Hopper, but I swear to god — I _swear_ — " He stopped and began pacing back and forth, visible anger made momentum.

Archie said, "You're here to tell me something about Cecelia French."

Dr. Whale gave a short, bitter laugh. "How'd you guess?"

Archie sat down, and waited. Still pacing, Dr. Whale told him about it.

He calmed down a little as he did, until he slowed, stopped, and eventually sat down and drank the rest of his water. Some of the furious redness faded from his face, as well, though Archie, watching and listening, could see that Dr. Whale did not lose any of his anger. It did not fade so much as focus, until Dr. Whale was once again cool and polished. The man did not let go of anger, he forged it, and it made Archie realize that he did not know Dr. Whale very well. That he had perhaps been too willing to accept the glossy, distant, and slightly harried surface of the man.

There was a quiet moment when Dr. Whale finished, and then he asked, "So what's the plan?"

Archie blinked, rather taken aback. "You — you're asking me?"

"I'm just the doctor," Whale said. "You're the psychiatrist."

"Yes." He was. And he had to admit that it made a certain amount of sense, the way Dr. Whale said it. And, as long as he was admitting things, before the doctor's dramatic entrance, Archie had been…well, not _planning_, because the people in charge made plans. But more a next step. There was a woman in the hospital who, one way or another, was going to need quite a bit of help, and as Archie intended to help, he might as well get started. But that wasn't a plan.

Archie stopped, knowing himself well enough to know his mind could go round like this for far too long. Besides, the next step was clear.

"Now we call Emma," he said.

* * *

The sheriff was there in under ten minutes. She tossed her windblown hair over her shoulder as she strode in, taking in Archie, and then Dr. Whale, in a single smooth glance. She didn't say anything, she simply plunked herself down on one of the caramel-colored couches, and crossed her long, long legs, and waited. Dr. Whale glanced at him (at _him_) (_again_), and Archie, attempting to appear as calm and composed as Emma and Dr. Whale looked, nodded. Dr. Whale turned to Emma, and began, "I have some concerns about Cecelia French. I examined Miss French yesterday, when she was brought in following her…altercation with Mr. Reve's vehicle. Her recent injuries are about what you'd expect for a young woman who deliberately overdosed and was then hit by a car — all in all, you could say she got lucky. Thankfully." Dr. Whale began twisting the cap on the water bottle, on and off. After a moment, he appeared to force himself to stop, the plastic crackling under his white-knuckled fingers, and said bluntly, "In the course of my examination, I discovered evidence of long term neglect and malnutrition. Long term. X-rays revealed an old break along her collarbone — several years old, if I had to guess — and I _do _because there is absolutely no mention of it in her file. She has a scar, by her hairline, the kind that would have required treatment, the kind that would have needed to be sutured closed by a doctor, by someone who took an oath, in _my _hospital — "

"Let me guess," Emma said. "No record."

"No. She was treated that way — by one of my staff — and I didn't know about it." Whale set the plastic bottle deliberately down on the coffee table. "We had what you might call an _incident_, about an hour ago. Miss French woke up, and she was not happy to be back in the hospital. We had to sedate her."

Emma let out a long sigh, and leaned forward, raking a hand through her bright hair as she looked to Archie. "What do we do now, doc?"

Archie wasn't surprised, not really; after all, he had called her here. Even so, he tried not to show how unsettling it was to have Emma turn to him. After all, he did have a logical next step, as it were. "I made an appointment to speak to Judge Arnaud. I a-am going to request that he order an official evaluation of Cecelia French, either by me or by another licensed and qualified psychiatrist. I believe there are sufficient grounds to do so; I spent last night speaking with the Department of Mental Health about the official and — and legal methods of commitment. They are extensive, and they are continual. It is not simply a matter putting someone in — "

"A dungeon," Emma said.

"A dungeon," Archie reluctantly agreed, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose, "and then turning the key. I have yet to find any evidence that anyone involved in Miss French's care followed these procedures in any way." He forced himself to add, "Though it is still early days."

Emma snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure Regina is hiding all the files for the Storybrooke crazies in her linen closet."

"I have not spoken to the Mayor about this. I did not think that would be…wise," Archie said, which was probably the best way to put it, under the circumstances. "I considered speaking to Mr. French. As-as Lacey's father he might hold some sway. But I am inclined to think that would be futile."

Emma cocked an eyebrow at the doctor. "Has Mr. French even been to visit yet?"

"No," Dr. Whale said, the single word making it clear exactly what he thought of the situation.

"My appointment with the Judge is tomorrow at eleven. I wanted to ask if the two of you would accompany me. To speak to him as well, if he required it, and give your opinions on the matter. On Miss French's treatment, and her…flight," Archie finished, not wanting to say _escape_.

Emma pinned him with that frank, fearless gaze of hers, and said, "Whatever you need." She didn't even didn't hesitate, and for a moment Archie felt a twist of…not quite envy, and not entirely sorrow, but something between the two. He wondered what it must be like to have that confidence, to be so sure of yourself that you would do what you thought was right and did not blink.

He had blinked so many times over the years, that trying not to sometimes felt impossible. But less impossible than having to look in the mirror after he gave in.

Archie chose not to examine too deeply when that had changed, and why.

Dr. Whale was silent for a long moment, then he looked at Emma and then Archie. And then nodded. "Whatever you need."

* * *

The bell on the door jingled late into afternoon, as Gold was sweeping up the broken glass. He did not bother to look up. "The shop is closed."

"And no wonder," the Mayor remarked, stepping delicately around the puddles of glass. "It looks like a twister's been though here. What — if I may ask — exactly happened?"

He turned back to his sweeping. He forced himself to continue. "I said we are closed. Leave now, or I shall call the sheriff."

"You're upset with me." The Mayor gave that exaggerated little pout. He didn't have to look at her to know she did; he could hear it. "Well, I can't say I'm surprised. Though I must say it is rather ungrateful of you — "

"_Ungrateful_." He could not let himself look at her. He stared down at the glittering shards of glass scattered on the floor. He imagined picking one up and plunging it into her heart. He wondered, if he did so, if there would be blood or merely dust. He imagined pulling her head back and slicing her pretty throat so he would never need hear that voice again.

But that would be...reacting, not deciding. That would be letting her pull the strings. And he did not want to simply _react_; if he simply _reacted_ it would be over too soon.

So he would wait. Wait until he could think. Wait until he could plan.

"I thought you would be happy. She once was dead, but is now alive again." The Mayor waved an elegantly manicured hand. "I thought you would be thrilled at the chance to have your…what's her name?" When he didn't answer, she pursed her lips as if thinking, and then snapped her fingers. "Your _Belle_ back again."

He did look at her now. Not in the least bit surprised. "'Chance,'" he said.

The Mayor gave an innocent little shrug. "The girl has been in a mental institution for twelve years — "

"Twenty-eight." _Twenty-eight years._

" — who knows what that does to a person's mind. I can't even _imagine_ what a fragile state she must be in right now, but I understand one's mental health is a very delicate thing. Taking into account her recent dramatics, it's entirely possible that she will need to be confined for quite some time. It's entirely possible that her treatment will need to be escalated. Do you know that in some institutions they still subject patients to shock treatment? Can you imagine what that's like? What that does to a person? I hear it can alter a person's brain. The…whatever they call them. Pathways." She waved an elegantly manicured hand. "I hear that sometimes it can alter them to such a degree that the one you get back isn't even the one you lost." She leaned a hip against a mostly intact counter, casually. Simply two people, having a casual chat. "I also hear it can be quite painful, if not done properly."

"What do you want?" Gold asked.

The Mayor smiled. "Oh, a great many things. But we'll start with…" She tapped a finger against her slickly painted lips, and then held out a hand. "A truce."

Gold gripped the broom, feeling it tremble under his fingers. Feeling it crack. He heard himself say, "Afraid, dearie?"

The Mayor glanced at his hands, and gave a little shrug. "No. Of course not. I am only asking that we logical about this. Now I know that some people might be thinking of revenge. Not _you_, obviously."

"Obviously," Gold agreed.

"Just as you obviously didn't care for that cracked little teacup Mr. French liberated from your home oh so recently. But someone short-sighted — someone who let themselves be blinded to who has the power, and over whom — well, that someone might think of revenge. And that would be foolish. And fruitless. Those people would do well to remember that mental health is, as I said, a _very_ delicate thing. That there are any number of reasons a person might need to be confined for their own well-being. That there are worse things that being left alone in a cell. Like not being left alone." She smiled at him, and it almost covered the look in her eyes. "Come, Rumple, let's be adults about this."

When he didn't respond, the Mayor pulled back her hand with a condescendingly maternal look. "I understand. Why don't you take a few days to consider the matter? After all, Miss French won't be going anywhere for the present. I understand she still needs quite a bit of treatment."

She strolled out, then turned to wave her fingers at him through the window before heading back down the street towards City Hall.

Gold went back to sweeping; there was quite a bit to clean up. And then…then he would think.

* * *

**He had been prepared to make an entrance. Something **_**dramatic, **_**but fairly standard. Perhaps harkening back to when he first met her — the doors swinging wide, just impressive and creaky enough to draw her attention, and then appearing behind her when she wasn't looking. But..._no_, it wouldn't do to repeat himself. So instead he simply had himself appear in a suitably elaborate puff of smoke in the main parlor.**

**Belle wasn't there.**

**She wasn't in the kitchen, either. Or the pantry, the library, the music room, the long gallery, the short gallery, the dungeons, the torture room, the torture supply closet (to be inventoried weekly, tools to be cleaned and oiled no less than twelve full hours after use). And now this was **_**ridiculous**_**, winking all over the place, trying to find a foolish little girl, who had clearly broken her word.**

_**No**_ — **and he ignored the sudden panic, the lurch in his chest that was **_**not**_ **fear — she would not leave. She would not, she **_**promised**_**. He was not sure why knew that, but he did. **

**And, knowing that, he could smell it now. The roses in the air. She always smelled of roses, though he had no idea how. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and a pillow and blanket for her cot in the dungeon, both of which he had given her. He closed his eyes, and reached out with his magic, and now that he could focus, he could sense her. Not in the castle, not as such, but on the grounds.**

**She was in the garden, hanging laundry on the line.**

**He stayed back, in the shadows, and watched her as she worked. The whole front of her gown was soaked through with soapy water, and her hair was bundled up on top of her head. She was talking to herself, which she did sometimes when she thought she was alone. He never mentioned it, because the silly girl would likely grow nervous and stop. "…nine days. Not counting today, of course." She flicked out a bed sheet of his and draped it over the line. She was getting better at that. "Nine and a half, then, which is nearly ten, when you think about it. Which is nearly two whole weeks…"**

**Rumplestiltskin turned then, not wanting to hear anymore. Not wanting to know that she was counting the days he had been gone. Silly little girl was only doing it because she was **_**glad **_**of it. Grateful for the time alone. It was foolish — **_**foolish **_— **to think she missed him.**

**He went to his study in the tower, and stayed there.**


	14. Chapter 14

Storybrooke's courthouse was a small, single-story building made up of clapboard and gray stone, just across the street from the much bigger, fancier, and more modern city hall. It had one of those brass plaques by the main entrance from the Storybrooke Historical Preservation Society, which — from what Emma'd heard — was made up of a bunch of the cranky, gray-haired grandmothers Storybrooke seemed to have in abundance, and the Mayor. Ruby had told her that they met every week to complain about their neighbors and make it a pain in the ass for anyone to try to even try to build a shed.

Dr. Hopper was waiting for her outside, his breath frosting in the gray morning air. Emma jogged up the last few stone steps to meet him, her hands jammed deep into her pockets for warmth. She really needed to remember to bring her gloves. This April was not messing around. "I know, I know, I'm late, I — Whale not here yet?"

"He went to get some coffee," he told her, nodding in the direction of Once Upon A Grind, a small cafe that had opened only a few weeks earlier. "I don't think he's been getting much sleep the past few days. I told him black and sweet for you?"

"Uh, yeah," Emma said, and told herself it was stupid to feel surprise. Archie was that type, to pay attention and remember the little details about people. "Thanks." He gave a small shrug and fussed with his umbrella. "Sorry I'm late, I, uh..." She glanced away for a second. "I went to see Mr. French."

Dr. Hopper didn't answer for a moment. "It didn't go well, I take it."

"You could say that." It was a gray day, and blustery, and threatening rain later because it was only just barely too warm for snow. The wind was a whip, and it yanked Emma's hair every which way and slapped her in the face with it. She clawed a hand through her hair, and told him.

She had found Mr. French in his shop. The closed sign was up, but the door was unlocked, and Mr. French was in the back, putting together a vase of lilies. Emma had tried to be delicate, and politic, and all of the things that other people were much better at, but it basically came out as: _So why haven't you gone to visit your daughter yet?_

Mr. French had protested, nearly dropping his shears, that he'd _wanted_ to — he really had — but the Mayor said it wasn't a good idea. _My Lacey's going to have to go back, she said, _Mr. French insisted, his expression so innocent and childlike that Emma had to fight back the urge to shake him and tell him to wake the hell up_. The Mayor says that it wouldn't help to visit and get her hopes up,_ Mr. French had said, _make her think she might come home. I just want to do what's right by her._

Emma had bit back the _are you fucking kidding me_ that would have been her first response, and gone for instead, _I get it. You're just trying to do what's best for her_.

She had not added that he was a moron if he believed one damn word Regina said, because he did believe it. She could see it on his face_._

"How can he be that stupid?" she bit out, mostly to herself. "How can someone be that _stupid _and _trusting_?"

"You think it's stupid to trust people?" Dr. Hopper asked.

"To trust Regina? Yes," Emma tossed back. "It's like he doesn't even _see _her — doesn't even see who she is."

"I believe that's…rather a common trait," Archie said, looking down at his shoes. "I, um, gather you didn't tell him we were going to speak with Judge Arnaud this morning."

Emma shrugged, about as innocently as she could manage. It really wasn't very much, but she didn't need to pretend. Not with Archie. "Figured it wouldn't help our case if he was bleating to the Judge about what Regina told him his Lacey needed."

"Or if he told Mayor Mills," Archie said. Accurately.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, doc," Emma said, doing her best to shift into her official sheriff's voice, which was kind of ruined by the fact that her teeth were starting to chatter, "but as I understand it, what we're trying to do here is get an impartial and objective opinion in the case. And considering Regina's involvement, she is not really in a position to be either."

"As opposed to Mr. French," he remarked.

Emma glared at him. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Miss French's," he said simply.

Emma looked away, angry at him, and feeling stupid because she wasn't really angry with him, and feeling angry that she felt stupid about it. She knew that Archie — that Dr. Hopper — was rational and logical and all that, knew that it was a good thing he was, and knew that she should try to be reasonable, too. But she didn't want to be reasonable right now. She wanted to be angry at someone, and he was the only one here. She'd been carrying the anger, a prickly red hot ball of it, under her ribs ever since she stepped out of that damn flower shop. Emma hunched her shoulders and tucked her head down against the wind that was battering at them. Her goddamn scarf, too — why did she keep forgetting her goddamn scarf? "He's her father, Arch," she said, scraping her hair out of her face as the wind whipped it mercilessly. "He should give a shit about what's happening to her."

"Maybe he does," Archie said. His voice was gentle, and Emma didn't look at him, couldn't look at him. Didn't want to see that look on his face, the one that said he understood she wasn't just talking about Mr. French. "I don't know what's in his heart, Emma, and neither do you. I believe it's possible for him to care, and…and — "

"And still be a shit father? Well, he should be _here_." She stopped, the last word coming out of a throat that was way too tight, and tried to concentrate on not shivering.

He didn't say anything for a long moment, and then sighed. "Here." Archie pulled off his scarf and offered it to her.

She shook her head. "I'm okay."

"You're freezing."

"No, I'm — " The _not _died in her throat as Archie took a hesitant step closer and looped the scarf around her neck. She blinked at him in surprise, and his cheeks went pink — from the cold, obviously. It was cold out here. "Uh, thanks…" Emma said, giving in and wrapping the rest of the scarf around her neck. The dark blue wool was warm and it smelled like his office, like peppermint and leather and old books.

"You're, um, cold," he said awkwardly, shifting away from her as Dr. Whale came up the steps, taking them two at a time, a cardboard carry-out tray of coffee in his hands.

"You're late," Dr. Whale said, prying a coffee free and shoving it at her.

Emma found she didn't have it in her to toss back a sarcastic comment. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Come on," Whale said, and strode into the courthouse without waiting for a reply.

* * *

They had arranged to meet Judge Arnaud in his chambers, which were just off of the one, and only, courtroom in the entire courthouse. The chambers seemed rather small, though to be fair the entire courthouse was kind of small, having been built back when the town was first founded and people were presumably smaller, though that was mainly Emma judging from the vintage clothing Mary Margaret liked to wear. But the Judge's chambers probably weren't as small as they looked, partly because they were crammed — albeit, tastefully — with heavy floor-to-ceiling bookcases, brimming with leather-bound law books, and big wooden chairs that looked like they could have come from the set of _The Tudors, _and an actual globe on an actual globe-stand made of…cherry? Emma guessed. Some kind of red wood that had been polished to the point where it glowed. And, in the center of all this, drawing the eye like gravity, was an enormous mahogany desk that seemed to take up about half the space in the room.

But Emma figured the room also seemed because it was occupied by Judge Arnaud, who was a massive bear of a man in a three-piece suit, complete with a silk handkerchief stuck in his jacket pocket. He looked like he could have stepped right out of one of those old-fashioned, turn-of-the-century boxing posters. He certainly had the mustache for it, huge and red and groomed into a little twisty curl on either side.

The Judge came out from around his desk as they entered, stretching out his meat-slab arms expansively, and offering Dr. Hopper one colossal hand. "Archibald! So good to see you again!" The Judge's voice, which had an unexpectedly sweet, Southern drawl, boomed with the force of a foghorn. "And Dr. Whale, aren't you ever the ray of sunshine? Sheriff — " Emma held out her hand and was almost yanked off her feet by the force of his handshake " — I don't believe we've been properly introduced, though I had the very great pleasure of voting for you in our most recent election. Sheriff Humbert _mayherestinpeace_ would be very proud of the job you're doing."

"Nice to meet you, sir," Emma managed, fighting the urge to massage her aching knuckles.

"Oh, please, 'Remy,' my dear, always 'Remy' to a pretty lady. Though — " he winked at her " — perhaps 'Your Honor' would be more appropriate, just as this present moment. Do sit down, everyone, please." The Judge chivalrously held out one of the cushioned wooden chairs in front of his desk for Emma, before settling behind the desk in his…well, the only word Emma could think of to describe it was _throne_. "I understand you all would like to talk to me about one of the patients at our fine hospital."

"Yes, Your Honor," Archie said, and concisely explained the circumstances behind Miss French's escape from Storybrooke General, their discovery of Miss French herself and the hitherto unknown psychiatric facilities at the hospital, and their concerns about her confinement and treatment therein. And he used both 'hitherto' and 'therein' during his explanation, which Emma had to give him points for.

Judge Arnaud then questioned Dr. Whale, who laid out the results of his examination of Miss French, and a few choice words about the hospital in general, his staff in particular, with an ominous. Then the Judge turned his twinkling and particularly piercing gaze on Emma. "And you, Sheriff? What are you here to tell me?"

"That if Lacey's been held in that place against her will, it's a crime," Emma said.

Judge Arnaud sat back in his chair. "That is a serious claim."

"Yeah. It is."

"It may be," Archie put in. "Our concern right now is that we have no way of knowing what, exactly, was going on, or if Miss French's confinement was in any way justified. Her files are next to non-existent. There is no evidence that Miss French ever received regular mental or physical check-ups. There is no evidence that there was even ever a proper evaluation of Lacey French, which at best is an egregious oversight. At the worst, it is…"

"A crime," Emma said. "At worst — _someone _has held this girl in a…_freakin'_" she amended at the last second "prison cell for years. You should go see it, Your Honor. It's a prison cell."

"Right now," Archie continued, "the most important thing is for us to determine Miss French's state of mind, so that it can be ascertained whether or not she belongs in a hospital. If that's the case, we can arrange for her to be treated in a proper psychiatric facility, where she will be assured of regular treatment. Or of _any_ treatment, actually," he added. "If she is not…"

"If she is _not_," Judge Arnaud interrupted, a glint of steel behind that jovial, lord-of-the-manor air, "well, then we have a rather more troubling matter on our hands. I am going to grant your request, doctor," he declared, brandishing a fountain pen and signing the order with a flourish. "And I must say, I for one will be very interested to hear the results of your evaluation."

* * *

There was a knock at the door. She tried pretending to be asleep, but it didn't work. Not when the machine next to her started beeping frenetically. She heard the footsteps enter the room, but it wasn't the Woman's; slowly, she opened her eyes, her fingers wrapping around the metal bar of her bed rail. Not the Woman. A man. The rather beige man, the one she'd met…yesterday? The day before that? Time was tricky, even up here with the sun to help her. She had met him earlier, in the police station. He was wearing a fussy little sweater vest, and he had a trench coat draped over one arm, and a long umbrella with a curved wooden handle hooked in his elbow.

"Good afternoon. The nurses told me you were awake, but if you're tired I can come back later." He had a nice voice. The kind of voice that made you want to listen. Behind his round spectacles his eyes were gentle. The bright silver coil of fear in her chest unwound slightly. "Do you remember me?" he asked, when she didn't say anything.

She nodded.

"Do you remember my name?"

That wasn't really what he meant. It was a test. She was good at tests; the Woman was fond of them. She licked her lips, but didn't answer.

"It's Archie Hopper. Dr. Hopper, actually. I'm a psychiatrist. I'd like to talk to you for a bit, if that's all right with you?" he said, and she felt herself frown. He was asking her? He was really asking her if she minded? She wondered what he would do if she said no, if he would stroll back out the door and leave her alone.

No. He wouldn't. She knew this test. The Woman liked it, liked to play that she had a choice, a say, that she had something that was hers. And then the Woman would laugh, and win. So when he gestured to a chair and asked, "May I?" she nodded again. He pulled the chair away from the wall and set it so it faced her bed. Then he draped his trench coat neatly over the back, and hooked his umbrella in place before sitting. "I understand that you have been...under the care of this hospital for some time, Miss French — "

"_Fre-nch_." She jumped, her voice startling her almost as much as it did him. She hadn't meant to say that. She hadn't meant to say anything.

"Yes," he said carefully.

She bit her bottom lip until it bled, trying to hold back the words and the terrible, terrible need. Trying to be strong. But the need to know was stronger than the need to keep silent. She swallowed, and still it came out in a raw, painful croak that was barely like words at all. "_I'm...Miss French?_"

"Cecelia French." He watched her for a moment. "I understand your father calls you Lacey."

She felt the tears running hot trails down her cheeks. She couldn't seem to stop them. They filled her eyes and blurred her vision and she was shaking, sick to her stomach and shaking. "_Lacey. My...name is Lacey_."

"Yes," and his eyes were kind behind his glasses.

Lacey buried her face in her hands and sobbed.


	15. Chapter 15

When Archie left the hospital, he called Emma. He couldn't even remember deciding to do it. He only understood that he was standing outside the hospital, and the phone was in his hand, and it was ringing.

She answered almost immediately. "How'd it go? What happened?"

"Emma."

"Yeah." After a second, she asked, "Are you okay?"

He wasn't, but he said, "Yes. I'm sorry. I just…" Wanted to hear a voice. Anyone's voice. Emma's voice.

There was a skeptical pause. "You don't sound okay," she said.

"I'm fine," he said, and it sounded so wholly false, even to his own ears, that he wasn't surprised when she snorted. But all she said was, "Arch, it's okay. If you need to talk, talk. We're — we're friends."

"Are we?" Archie murmured.

"Yes," Emma said firmly.

"She doesn't know her name." Archie needed to say out aloud. Needed to hear himself say it. "I had to tell her what her name was."

There was a pause. "Are you seri — " Emma stopped. The "_well, shit_" that followed was low and tired. "I'm at the station."

"Emma, I can't — "

"See you in ten minutes." She hung up.

* * *

Archie let himself into the sheriff's office, which looked empty, but as the door swung shut, jangling the bell, Emma called out from the small kitchen in the back. "Archie?"

He nodded, remembering only after a long, tired moment to say, "Yes."

"Have a seat. I'm making tea."

"Thank you," he said, in a voice that sounded remarkably normal and controlled. Archie sat, the energy draining out of him like water. He felt suddenly and profoundly weary, in a way that went past mere muscles and bone and into his soul. He heard Emma clattering in the kitchen, the whistle of the tea kettle and the creak of cabinets. He didn't even really want tea, but he couldn't think of a good reason to refuse, and the milk and sugar and mug would give him something to do with his hands, something he didn't have to think about. He wanted that mindless action. More than that, he wanted, savagely, ten minutes to himself. Ten minutes to think and process and come to terms, as best he could, with the idea that one person could so something like that to another. Could so traumatize a person that she lost her own name.

Emma came out, two heavy, steamy mugs in one hand, and a box of cookies in the other. She set them on the desk in front of him. "I've been hiding these from Ruby," she said, flipping back the lid of the box. "Usually I'd say hands off the Milanos, but, to be honest, you look like you could use one."

"That's very generous of you." He took a cookie and turned it over in his fingers. He couldn't bring himself to eat it.

"You saw Lacey," she prompted, straddling a seat next to him.

"Yes. I just came from…" Archie swallowed. "I need to write a report — and official report — I'll write it tonight — "

Emma put a hand on his wrist, rubbed the skin there with her thumb. He wasn't sure if she knew he was doing it. "Don't worry about that." She nodded at the coffee mug in front of him. "Drink."

Archie lifted his mug and sipped, and then sputtered in what he was certain was a truly ridiculous manner. "There is alcohol in this."

"Yeah. A lot."

"It's four-fifteen in the afternoon, sheriff."

"And this girl has been locked in a dungeon for twelve years and doesn't know her own damn name, doctor."

Archie sighed. He couldn't really argue with that. "I have an appointment." She gave him a look, and Archie stiffened and straightened in his chair. "It's Henry," he explained.

The look disappeared from her face, and she tossed him a bright, if strained, smile. "That's easy." She dug her cell phone out of her pocket and pressed a button.

"Emma."

"One sec," she said, wedging the phone by her ear. "Hey, kid. It's, uh, me. Emma. I'm calling cause…well, I met up with Hopper — uh, Archie — Dr. Hopper. And he said he's not feeling well. He thought he might have to cancel your session. And I thought, you know, if you're not doing anything, you might want to drop by the station. Maybe. Cause I could use some help with the…" She ran her eyes around the room. "The filing." She paused. "Sure. Sounds great. See you then." She hung up and tossed the phone on her desk before tugging a flask out of her pocket, which she unscrewed the flask to top off Archie's cup. "See? Easy."

"It sounded it," Archie said. "Do you mind if I ask how things are going between you and Henry?"

"They're…going. He's not really happy with me at the moment. For getting Lacey put back in the hospital." She knocked back her tea. "Can't really blame him."

"That wasn't exactly your doing," he remarked. Emma shrugged. "You don't need to always take responsibility for everyone."

Emma tilted her head to peer at him, arching one eyebrow. "Lacey."

"I'll have to speak to her again before I can make a determination. She became…understandably upset. When she calms down — "

"When she gets over knowing who the hell she is."

" — I will need to conduct a more thorough evaluation. She..." He tried again. "Metal illness is not a - a simple thing, and her...gaps in memory may be the result of such an illness. I'm sorry," he said quickly, "I should not have come here, I shouldn't have bothered you, I wasn't thinking."

"Archie." Her voice was quiet and firm, and it stopped him. "What does your gut say?"

"I cannot base a psychiatric evaluation on my gut, Emma."

"Sure. But what does it say?"

Archie didn't answer. He didn't need to. She knew; he knew she did.

Emma nudged his arm. "Hey. Whatever it takes, right?"

He nodded, and took another drink, feeling the alcohol sear down his throat. "Emma. Whoever is responsible — "

"We know who's responsible," Emma said. Archie wanted to say that they needed to gather evidence, to build a case, before they could say that. But he didn't, because Emma was right. "We know who we're up against. And we know she's not going to take it easy on us."

And he heard his voice say, "Not just her. Everyone who helped her. Everyone who knew and stood by and said nothing."

Emma picked up her mug and held it out, and she looked him in the eyes, her gaze steady and sure and strong. He wanted to say, _teach me how to be like that; _he was afraid, with the warmth of the alcohol pooling in his belly, that he might. So instead Archie picked up his mug, and she clinked hers with his. "Deal."

* * *

**He did not come out of his tower until late that night, until the sky around the mountains had turned to ink. Until he sensed that she had settled into her cell in the dungeon, and enough time had passed that she must have fallen asleep.**

**Then he crept down into the parlor (crept **— **in **_**his own palace**_**) and set the fire to light and began to spin. **_**This **_**was what he liked. The quiet evening, with only the fire for light, glinting off the gold thread. With only the soothing creak of the spinning wheel for sound, and only himself for company. Alone. He liked being alone. He preferred it. Very much so.**

**He did.**

**Rumplestiltskin sensed the movement, the shift in the air and the magic, and he froze, caught like a wasp in amber. For one endless moment of indecision, he was caught between the desire to stay and the fear that urged him to flee.**

**Belle came in, her bare feet silent on the carpet, clad in only her shift, with her blanket — the blanket he had given her — wrapped around her like a shawl. She noticed the fire first and spun to find him at the spinning wheel. "You're back!"**

**It came out slightly breathless, a mix of laughter and surprise and — and that was it. Just laughter and surprise. Nothing else. Certainly not relief.**

"**Of course I'm back, foolish girl," Rumplestiltskin said, keeping his focus on the wheel and the straw as he twisted her words into a mockery, a joke, in the hope of robbing them of their power. "This is my castle. I will always come back."**

"**Well. You were away a long time," she said, a little awkwardly.**

"**Not even two weeks," he said flippantly, glancing up to give her a mocking smile and immediately wished he hadn't. She was standing with her back to the fire, and she was wearing only her shift. The firelight glowed through it, and for a dry-mouthed, gut-wrenching moment, his mind went simply **_**blank**_**.**

**Of course she was in her shift. It made sense. It was practical. She wouldn't sleep in that mess of a ball gown. It probably had to dry or…or something. Yes, **_**dry**_ — **after she had gotten it all wet and messy from the laundry. Even if it hadn't been, it couldn't possibly be comfortable, sleeping in all those acres of satin. A shift was much more sheer — **_**sensible. **_**Much more **_**sensible**_**.**

**He should get her another gown. This waiting for her to ask was silly; he was the Dark One, wasn't he? He didn't need to prove anything to some snip of a girl. He should get her something more serviceable, for work. And some proper nightgowns. And a robe. A thick, dark, heavy robe.**

**Not **_**immediately**_**, of course. It would acknowledge that he could see things. Best he didn't, and **–** and pretend he couldn't.**

"**I couldn't sleep," Belle said, playing with the edges of her blanket. "I was going to make some tea. Would you like some?"**

**Rumplestiltskin nodded and selected more straw. She went into the kitchen, the door shutting softly behind her. When she came out again, some minutes later, tea things on a tray, he merely waved for her to put a cup to the side for him and continued spinning. He waited until she was settled, curled up in a chair by the fire with a teacup cradled in her hands, to pick up his own cup and take a sip.**

**At the very least she had learned how to make a decent cup of tea; dark and strong enough that you could very nearly slice it with a knife and spread it on a piece of bread. There had been days — Before — when there had barely been enough food for Bae, and he had to make do with tea, and he would make it strong enough that he could tell himself it would last all day. He had gotten into the habit, Rumplestiltskin supposed, even though he no longer needed to worry about where the next meal would come from, had not needed to for some time (even if he could never entirely forget what the worry tasted like), and still preferred his tea dark enough to stain an anvil. Anything weaker simply tasted like water with ideas above its station.**

**He finished his cup, and crossed to the table to pour himself another, risking a glance at Belle along the way. She had her knees pulled up to her chest, her bare feet peeking out from under the edge of her shift, and her eyes were closed as her head lay lax against the back of the chair. The half-empty teacup was settled in her lap, tilting so that the tea was very nearly spilling out. Rumplestiltskin watched her for a moment, then gently eased the teacup out of her grasp and set it on the table. He was careful to touch only the cup, not her hands. He knew people didn't like it when he touched them. She shifted as he pulled the cup free, her eyelids fluttering, and made a sound that was warm and soft and almost a question. "You're falling asleep, dearie," he said.**

"**No, I'm not," she murmured, shaking her head slightly. "Promise." Then, a little clearer, "I just want to stay for a bit. Can I stay?"**

**He wanted to tell her no, to go back to bed, to go away. It would be easier if he did. "Yes," he said.**

**She sighed, a smile curving her lips, and tucked her head into the corner of the chair. "I like to listen to it. The spinning wheel. It's soothing," she murmured, her voice, slow and quiet, on the edge of sleep. "It's too quiet when…"**

**The words faded into the firelight before she could finish, but she didn't need to. He knew what she was going to say. **_**When he was gone**_**. He was glad she hadn't finished it.**

**She missed him. **

_**No**_**. She didn't. She simply missed…**_**another person**_**, that was all. Missed the sound of someone else moving about in the castle. Missed the sense of them, and the warmth in the air that told you that you were not alone. She didn't miss **_**him.**_ **She had simply…got used to him. Just as he was, in a fashion…perhaps…growing used to her.**

**Only a little, though. He certainly didn't miss **_**her**_**, when he was away. Not at all.**

**Not really…**

**The firelight flickered, catching her hair, which was falling free of the braid she had bound it in. He wondered if it was as soft as it looked. He wondered what it would feel like to twist a lock around his finger, and had to ignore the sharp, sly urge to run his fingers through the dark curls simply to watch them spring back.**

**Rumplestiltskin abruptly realized he had been staring at her for some time, and that she was well and truly falling asleep. He considered his options, debated, and settled on simply nudging her shoulder, which was safely covered by a blanket. "Wake up, dearie."**

**Belle, eyes still closed, shifted and sighed, "I will…I am…I promise…"**

"**Liar."**

"…**never lie…"**

"**You'll be asleep in a moment. You can't spend all night in this chair, silly girl."**

"**Getting up…promise…"**

**When she didn't move, he sighed. "Oh, dearie, what am I going to do with you? I should have asked for half your father's kingdom, or a rose from his garden, not a princess. You're far more trouble than you're worth."**

**He thought she was well and truly asleep, but she smiled at that and murmured, "Nag, nag, nag," the words slurring together. He didn't smile. He didn't _want_ to smile. He wasn't sure when, exactly, she had stopped being afraid of him, but he...well...he absolutely _did not_ like it. At all.**

**Impertinent girl. Insolent. _Disrespectful_. And all of the other words like that.**

**He should leave her there. He should sleep himself. Go to his room and sleep and leave her there. For a single, terrifying moment he pictured picking her up and carrying her to her cell in the dungeon. He could imagine it — how she would feel — the soft, warm weight of her in his arms. He tried to think of the last time he had touched someone, the last time someone had touched him. He thought about Before, with Bae. How often had he put an arm around the boy's shoulders, run a hand through his hair, hugged him? Rumplestiltskin realized, as he hadn't before, just how much he had taken that for granted, that contact with another person. The simple comfort of skin against skin.**

**Rumplestiltskin stepped away. He was tired of spinning. He was — well, he was just **_**tired**_**. He needed rest, didn't he? He was only just back from a very long journey, hadn't he? He would go back to his room and go to sleep himself, and he would leave her **_**here**_**, as he should have done half an hour ago, and if she woke with aches and pains from spending the night in a chair instead of her nice, comfortable cot in the dungeon, then it would serve her right. **

**He banked the fire with a flick of his hand, and left, before he had a chance to think any more about it.**

**His chambers were the finest and largest in the Dark Castle, and — which was only to be expected as he had been away for ten days – cold and very dark. Rumplestiltskin didn't mind that. Of course he didn't. He was used to it.**


	16. Chapter 16

She had cried until she couldn't. Until her muscles ached, and her head ached, and the energy ran out of her like rainwater. Until she slept. And, sleeping, she dreamt.

She dreamt strange things. About **a castle**. **She dreamt about the castle too often, **so often when she was back there, in the dark, when no matter what she had tried the only real escape had been in her sleep. Dreamt, again and again, **that she was back there or that she went back, running up the drive, pushing the massive doors open. Sometimes she dreamt that she was pulling at the doors, pulling and hammering, but this time they opened, slow and heavy, and she ran through the halls, shoes ringing on the marble floors, and there was light under the door and the scent of straw and the sound of spinning. And then he looked up and he reached out and his hands **were warm, so warm…

"Belle."

She tried to reach out to him, but her arms were so heavy. But she could smell it, the scent of him, warm and sweet and dry, and it was the scent of home. **She would hide in barns while she was traveling. She would tell herself not to, that it hurt too damn much, promise never again, and still she would seek them out. Just for a hope of that scent, for a chance to close her eyes and pretend.**

His fingers, warm and slender, brushed her cheek, trailed down her face.

She felt herself drifting up toward consciousness, and squeezed her eyes shut tighter, trying to cling to the dream. **Home.** _Don't wake up, don't wake up_. Let her stay there. Please, let her stay — in that moment, with his skin against hers. But the dream drifted away, and carried her along into the dark.

The dark…

It was always so dark in there. Closing in on her, pressing down, suffocating –

Terror ripped her awake before she could fully comprehend and seized her by the throat. Dark walls dark space around her… Panic had her chest in a vice and it squeezed, and she couldn't think and she couldn't breathe, and she felt the scream in her, the scream that couldn't escape, the scream that built and built…

Light flared, blinding her, and she froze.

"Are you all right?"

It was a young woman, tall and lanky, with long dark hair. The light from the hall shone through the open door, and her red blouse seemed to glow with it.

"Don't freak out," the woman said, holding up her hands. "Okay? Everything's okay."

She blinked and nodded, her heart still shaking in her chest. But the sight of the woman had startled some of the fear away, enough that she could breathe now. The hospital air was cool and dry and carried the tang of bleach, and she heard the desperate, ragged edge that was almost sobs as she pulled it into her lungs.

The woman's red mouth curved into a wide grin. "Hey, a nod. That's almost like real communication. It's a step, anyway. Keep breathing, that's it." She mimed deep breaths. "In, out, just like that. Better?"

She nodded, the sting of fear still vibrating along her skin.

"Another nod. How about we try some real words? I'll go first," the woman said, sitting down on the bed. "I'm Ruby Lucas. And you are…"

Lacey. Her name was Lacey felt odd to think the words; she didn't try to say them.

"Hmm…" Ruby tilted her head and peered at her with dark eyes that seemed to gleam gold in the shadows. "Just yes and no questions, then? Are you hurting? You want me to call the nurses, for drugs or something?"

She — _Lacey —_ shook her head. Ruby gave her a _look, _but all she said was, "I'm going to hang for a bit, all the same. If that's okay. Emma — that's the sheriff — she thought it'd be a good idea. Since you keep trying to run off," Ruby added, but her eyes were warm and she didn't sound angry. She nodded toward the open door. "I can wait out in the hall, if you want."

She glanced at the door, uncertain.

"How about this?" Ruby suggested. "I'll hang for a bit, and when you're sick of me, you can just point at the door and give me a shove, or something."

She nodded.

"Awesome. Hey, you're a fan of Dumas?" Ruby reached over and plucked a book from off the bedside table. It was thick, bound in brown leather, and the pages yellowed with age. "_Monte Cristo'_s really great." Ruby flipped through the book, her eyebrows lifting as she did. "Wow, unabridged version — let me guess, you're an overachiever," she said, and it was only when she handed the book over that Lacey realized she had reached out for it. The leather was supple underneath her fingertips, and the smell of old paper was a tangible comfort. She traced her fingers across the faded gold lettering of the title. This hadn't been here before. She was sure it hadn't. "I usually go for the abridged myself. I mean, Al tells a great story, but that guy could _yak _— "

"Lacey," she said, and looked up. The solid weight of the book in her hands was like an anchor. "My name is Lacey."

Ruby grinned, and it wasn't at all like the Woman's smile. It was real. It was kind. Ruby held out a hand and Lacey took it and shook it without thinking. "Nice to meet you."

* * *

**He sensed when she started up from the dungeon, the quick, bright energy rushing up the stairs. She entered on a spin, the skirt of her gown twirling out around her. "What do you think?"**

"**It's blue," he said. He had known that. He had chosen it. He had not known the color would make her skin look like cream. **

**Then her smile turned genuine — too much so for his comfort — and she said, "Thank you," and would have crossed over to him if he handing found it absolutely necessary to see to something on the other side of the room.**

**He did so, waving his hand absently as he strode quickly away. "I was growing tired of seeing that old gown. It was so last season."**

**He wasn't looking at her, but he could **_**hear**_ **that ridiculous smile in her voice. The knowing one. He found that smile particularly…irritating. "And this is much more de rigueur."**

"**It is _practical_, dearie, that is what it is," he said, turning back to her loftily. "Much better suited to a **_**servant **_**than that ridiculous frippery you insisted on sweeping about in. I brought you here to work, not to play at cook and scullery maid."**

**Belle curtseyed meekly, but her eyes, peering up at him, were sparkling. "Yes, sir." **

**He found himself struggling not to smile back. **"**Now I'm hungry. It's a half-hour past breakfast — what have I told you about schedules?"**

**That bloody curtsey again. "Yes, sir."**

"**And do try not to burn the kitchen down while you're at it."**

"**Yes, sir."**

**He waited until she was at the door to the kitchen. He almost didn't say it. "And…when you're finished with that — you may as well take whatever things you don't care to lose up to the Green Room in the East Wing. You might as well sleep there from now on. It's not a kindness," he said quickly, pointing a finger at her to forestall whatever ridiculous thanks she might feel inclined to start gushing. "It's simply that you are taking up valuable space. In the dungeon. I very rarely have guests, but I torture people **_**all the time**_**, as you well know, dearie." Not that Belle counted as a guest. She was — well, ****she was not quite a guest, is what she was. The help. She was the help.**

"**Yes," she said, and then said, "Thank you," anyway, as if he had not _just_ explained why her thanks were not necessary.**

"**Those rooms need a good airing out, now that I think of it," he continued blithely, as if he hadn't heard her. "You should add that to your duties as well, and I cannot even **_**recall **_**the last time the linens were properly inventoried — "**

"**Why do you do that?"**

**He stopped, blinking at her. "What?"**

**"Stop me. Whenever I try to thank you, you…" She stuck her nose up in the air and waved her hand, in an irritatingly accurate imitation of him.**

"**Perhaps I am simply tired of hearing your incessant thanks, bothersome girl," he tossed back at her, fighting against the urge to stick his chin out it the exact way she had just mimicked. Blast it all. "I've done nothing you should thank me for. It isn't kindness — "**

"**It is to me."**

"**Yes, but your head is full of rainbows and rose petals. I should provide room and board and a uniform for any of my servants **— "****

****"You don't have any other servants."****

****"I would if I bothered to get some. A mere dress and a room are not _kindnesses_; **I am not a kind man."**

"**No, you're not," she agreed.**

"**There you have it, then." He clapped his hands, rubbing them together as if to rub away the past five minutes of conversation. "In the meantime, it has not escaped my noticed that my breakfast _still_ has yet to appear — "**

**Belle held up her hands, and stepped towards him. She had a look in her eye; he had been noticing **_**that **_**look more often lately. It was not the sad, uncertain look she had worn when she first came to the Dark Castle. It was warm and frank and unafraid. To his satisfaction, Rumplestiltskin managed not to step back as she drew closer. "Let's try this again. Thank you, Rumplestiltskin, for my dress and for the room." He opened his mouth to protest, but she arched an eyebrow and pinned him with a look, and whatever words he was going to say died away. "Now you say '**_**you're welcome**_**.'"**

**He said, "You're welcome. Belle."**

**She smiled, and he wished desperately, through the sudden sharp ache, that she wouldn't, that she would go away. Everything was so much easier when he was alone. He didn't have to think about things. He didn't have to _want_. "Wonderful. A little more practice and you'll start to sound like you actually mean it. I'll see to breakfast," she added, in that maddening meek housekeeper tone, and turned back to the kitchen.**

"**Perhaps this time you won't burn it," he tossed after her, desperate to regain something of his footing. It wasn't the best volley, but it was the best he could do at the moment.**

**"**I'm still learning," Belle said. "A month from now — "****

"**Don't make promises you don't intend to keep, dearie," Rumplestiltskin said, and allowed himself to add, carefully, casually, "We'll just wait and see, shall we? After all, you're going to be here for a while."**

"**Forever," Belle said. He had said those things to punish her, but the way she had said it...it wasn't sad or angry or despairing. It was, simply, fact. ****She paused at the kitchen door and gave that damned, damned, **_**damned **_**curtsey again. It made him want to…to…**

**Stay here. Right here. In a different room, with a wall between them, and wait for his breakfast like a proper lord of the manner.**

**There weren't any** _**forevers**_**; Rumplestiltskin knew that. But he wondered if, for a little while, it wouldn't hurt so very much to pretend.**

* * *

He had been right. There weren't any forevers.

Gold stalked through the wet, secluded streets back to his shop. It had come on to rain, an icy, persistent drizzle that was just strong enough to soak through coat and clothes and snake past his collar. He hadn't bothered with an umbrella. He rarely did; it was difficult to manage that an the cane.

A few short months — _that_ had been his forever — and then he had thrown it all away. Out of fear. He had been a cruel, useless, cowardly _fool_; he had wasted so much time. _Months_ he had with her — not years, not a lifetime, _months _— and he wasted them out of _fear_, and then he had spent forever after regretting it. Wishing things had been different, wondering how they could have been. Torturing himself wondering what might have happened if, for that one moment, he could have been brave. Those dark, endless nights, when not even the wheel had been able to give him comfort, to help him forget, even for a moment, and the castle still smelling of roses even after she was…gone.

No, not gone. Dead. He had thought she was _dead_. The Queen had told him Belle was _dead_. And he had _believed_ her. He believed that she would come to lord it over him. Her original gambit had not paid off, but she had discovered a gap in his armor, and it was like her to see if she could slip a dagger in and _turn._ It had all been poison, but he had believed it…

Because it was like Belle. To return home, to her father. To insist on her love for him, to her father as she had to him, and for her father to view it as something she must be cured of. Gold knew well the extent of cruelty a weak man was capable of out of kindness.

Her father. Her _father_ had known. Known she was here, known where she was and what was being done to her. Known who had her and he had _let it happen._

Gold would deal with him. Later.

First...

Gold let himself into his shop, his fingers frozen and slippery on his keys. Inside it was dark and quiet. And clean. It had taken some time to restore things to order again, after his...madness. But he had sorted them. It had given him the time he needed to get past the first, devastating blow. To regain _control_, and reason. To be able to think.

He removed his overcoat and went to hang it on the coat tree in the back. Something crunched underfoot. A small shard of glass glittered up from the floor. Gold bent to pick it up, remembering how the Mayor had tip-toed around the wreckage when she came to cry peace.

That shrew. That poisonous shrew. She said Belle was dead and he had _believed her_, and all that time — all this time. _Twenty-eight years_. She had Belle hidden away, holding her, waiting for the right time, the most desperate time, to bring her out for ransom. Knowing that, as the days and years added up, he would be that much more desperate to get her back. That he would do anything Regina asked.

He would have done _anything_.

Gold's hand closed around the shard of glass, focusing on the pain, and not the black and burning thing inside him. The thing that could not be merely be called anger or fury. That could only be called, weakly, _rage, _and even that was far too pale and little word to be compared to what he was feeling.

_Twenty-eight years. _

It was long enough. He was done. Done playing at enemies. Done with the silly games, and their pretty little truce, and with with wielding his power in the shadows while she tried to rule in the light.

He would break her world apart. He would tear from her everything she most loved, bit by bit, he would make her watch, until she had nothing, _as she had left him nothing_. It would not be Justice. It would not even be Revenge. _Revenge_ was too small a word for what he intended.

It would be a _reckoning._

* * *

**AN: Thus ends Episode 2. I'll start posting the next Episode/Part/Whatever as soon as it's finished and in good shape. Again, I want to thank everyone for the lovely reviews, and comments, and suggestions. I really appreciate them, and it's nice to see people enjoying the read.**


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